


I Dream Of Felicity

by always_a_queen



Series: The I Dream Of Felicity AU [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3886018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/always_a_queen/pseuds/always_a_queen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oliver Queen finds the dark purple bottle on Lian Yu's beach. He digs it out of wet sand and washes it off in the ocean water before pulling the out the stopper and releasing a burst of purple smoke that quickly solidifies into a blonde girl in a belly dancer outfit.<br/>At first he thinks he's hallucinating.<br/>It's about damn time too, really. He's been stranded alone on this island for—by his surely inaccurate calculations—over four years. Four years of limited human contact—there were people, but they were threats or targets and they provided no escape from this hell—was bound to leave his sanity unraveling at the edges.<br/>Oliver doesn't have an abundance of time to contemplate his slow descent into madness, because the hallucination has thrown herself into his arms and pressed her lips to his and—<br/>Hallucinations aren't this solid, aren't this real, are they?"<br/>//<br/>Or: An <i>I Dream Of Jeannie</i> AU, Oliver/Felicity style. Originally posted on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Want You To Want Me

**Author's Note:**

> Over a year ago, I made a random post about how much I needed an _I Dream Of Jeannie_ AU for Oliver and Felicity. 
> 
> Four months ago, I started writing one through a series of [drabbles](http://andyouweremine.tumblr.com/post/111103885408/the-i-dream-of-felicity-au-masterpost) on my tumblr.
> 
> It was supposed to be funny and short and sweet.
> 
> It has since turned into a long, angst-filled monster.
> 
> That's _finally_ getting its own AO3 post after four months.

Oliver Queen finds the dark purple bottle on Lian Yu's beach. He digs it out of wet sand and washes it off in the ocean water before pulling the out the stopper and releasing a burst of purple smoke that quickly solidifies into a blonde girl in a belly dancer outfit.

At first he thinks he's hallucinating. It's about damn time, really. By his surely inaccurate calculations, he's been stranded alone on this island for over four years. Four years of limited human contact—there were people, but they were threats or targets and they provided no escape from this hell—was bound to leave his sanity unraveling at the edges.

Oliver doesn't have an abundance of time to contemplate his slow descent into madness, because the hallucination has thrown herself into his arms and pressed her lips to his and—

Hallucinations aren't this solid, aren't this real, are they?

He can feel the softness of her skin beneath the calluses on his hands as he instinctively grabs onto her waist. He can taste saltwater on her tongue and smell the sweet scent of her perfume. The press of her body against his is tantalizing. One of her hands rakes through the long tresses of his hair while the other holds fast to the tattered material of his shirt.

And Oliver's lost.

He opens his mouth to her, pulls her closer, kisses her deeper. She's like breathing fresh air after an eternity of drowning, and if this is some kind of dream, he doesn't ever want to wake up.

Except then she's pulling away, stepping back, and he looks down at the most beautiful woman he's every seen. Bright pink lips, golden curls, kind eyes.

"Wow," he breathes.

"Hi," she says, and he can't help but notice the way she's panting, the dazed expression on her face. She's broken the kiss, but she hasn't stepped out of his arms.

"Where did you—" Oliver stops, glances at the bottle floating in the ocean at the girl's feet. "I've got to be—"

He chuckles, suddenly awkward. She's still very much pressed up against him, and he's still thrown from that kiss.

"You've got to be what?" she asks.

"Dreaming," he says. "I've got to be dreaming. You can't be real."

Confusion fills her features. "Why not?"

"Because—" He swallows, somehow nervous. "I'm alone here."

She smiles. "You're not dreaming. You rescued me."

Letting one of her arms fall from around Oliver's neck, the girl reaches down to retrieve the bottle. "I've been in here for the past...well, it must be about forty or fifty years by now."

"You've been trapped...in there?"

"Waiting for you, Master."

"Master?"

She looks, of all things, offended by his clear confusion. "Genie—" she points to herself, then to him— "Master."

Oliver scrambles away from her, and she looks even more hurt. "Wait—wait, what?"

"I'm your genie," she says, slowly, as if he's an idiot.

"No," he says. "You're not. You're...I don't know what you are but what you're not is a genie."

The girl crosses her arms, and narrows her eyes at him. "I can prove it to you."

"How?"

"I can give you anything you want. Wish for something."

"Wish for something," Oliver says. "Anything?

"Anything," she repeats.

That's easy. There's only one thing he wants. "I want to go home."

The girl blinks. "Done."

"Done?" Oliver asks, "You haven't done..."

He lets his sentence fade away.

There's a ship on the horizon that wasn't there a second ago.

* * *

 

Felicity wakes up from her nap when her bottle—which has been lying on its side for the better part of a half-century—suddenly tilts upright. She falls forward hard onto one of the benches situated around the circumference, and an avalanche of pillows piles on top of her. Tossing them aside, Felicity makes her way to the very center of the room and glances up the bottle's neck. The cork is still in place, but the magical lanterns that provide her little room with light sway as the bottle rocks back and forth.

Then the room tips again, and Felicity loses her balance with a yelp. There's not much for her to hold onto besides the cushioned benches around the room's perimeter. She's just managed to right herself when the thing tips again, and this time the room slowly fills with smoke as the bottle's stopper is removed.

Felicity glances down at her wrists to see thick silver manacles forming there. They posess no clasp and no chain, but extend a good four inches down her arm.

She has a new Master. Her skin feels electrified with the pleasure of it, battling with the dread that seeps into her bones. She forces herself to take slow breathes, in through her nose, out through her mouth. This one won't be like the last one. This one will be different. This one she'll get the upper hand on.

This one she'll wrap around her finger from the get-go.

A rush of excitement fills her as the smoke draws her up and up, through the neck of the bottle and out into the world beyond. She's standing on a beach, a few feet into the water, and the sound and smell of the ocean is heavenly.

She hasn't breathed fresh air in a long time.

She only takes a second to appreciate it, because her Master is standing in front of her, and she very desperately needs him—to love her, to be kind to her, to not hurt her.

So she kisses him.

His lips are chapped, and his beard is rough against her mouth. When his hands eventually land on the bare skin of her waist she can feel the calluses on the pads of his fingers.

Pushing herself up on her toes, she grabs a fistful of his shirt in order to keep her balance as she runs her fingers through his hair. She feels it the instant he gives himself over to her, to wanting her. He takes control of the kiss and she lets him, allowing him to wrap his arms more fully around her.

It's overwhelming and exactly the response she was waiting for. Felicity pulls back. It's not a retreat, just a pause.

"Wow," he says softly.

She looks up at him, dizzy with fresh air and his kiss and the sight of him.

"Hi," she says. His arms are still around her, and for all that she doesn't know this man at all—not even his name, only that she's his—the touch, the contact, is a potent thing after almost fifty years of solitude. She thinks she could cry just from relief at seeing another person again.

"Where did you—" He stops, glances at the bottle floating in the ocean at Felicity's feet. "I've got to be—"

He chuckles awkwardly, but it's a lovely sound.

"You've got to be what?" she asks.

"Dreaming," he says. "I've got to be dreaming. You can't be real."

Well, that's new. "Why not?"

"Because. I'm alone here."

He has no concept of what alone is, Felicity thinks, but instead she says, "You're not dreaming. You rescued me."

She picks up her bottle to show him. "I've been in here for the past...well, it must be about forty or fifty years by now."

"You've been trapped...in there?"

"Waiting for you, Master." The last word still feels like acid on her tongue, but she has to say it.

"Master?"

"Genie—" she points to herself, then to him— "Master."

"Wait—wait, what?" He scrambles away from her, and she panics. This is not going well.

"I'm your genie," she says, slowly, trying to stamp down the terror rising inside her. In her experience, Masters who didn't believe Genies exist have been the worst ones.

"No," he says. "You're not. You're...I don't know what you are, but what you're not is a genie."

The cursed magic inside her pulses. It's itching to get out, itching for him to stake a claim on her. Wanting, needing, craving. So Felicity says, "I can prove it to you."

"How?"

"I can give you anything you want. Wish for something."

"Wish for something," he says, dumbstruck. "Anything?

"Anything," she confirms.

"I want to go home."

That was the last thing she expected, but the magic can easily make that happen. She blinks. "Done."

"Done?" he asks. "You haven't done..."

He's too busy staring at the ship she's summoned to notice the way her face contorts from the sudden pain of the shackles around her wrists contracting.

* * *

 

"You don't have to call me 'Master'," Oliver tells her for what must be the tenth time since she tumbled out of a dark purple bottle in a haze of similarly colored smoke. "Really, Felicity. I'll make it an order if I have to."

They're back in Starling City, in his old bedroom, and she's sitting on his dresser, legs crossed, curly blonde ponytail brushing against the back of her neck. The bedlah she's wearing today is purple and silver, giving Oliver a good view of her stomach and the tops of her breasts. He knows she's caught him looking, and he knows it bothers her, so he tries to keep his gaze on her neck or shoulders. Except those are beautiful too; every inch of her is.

"It doesn't work like that," she says. "It's not that I don't want to do it. I can't do it, Master. It's against the code. I am physically unable to address you in such a way as long as I'm tethered to this," she gestures to her bottle, sitting innocently on his dresser.

"There's got to be a loophole though, right?"

Felicity shrugs. "I don't know. No one else ever cared to find out."

Oliver's hands still while in the process of tying his tie. "I'm sorry," he says, and he means it.

She blinks quickly, and all on its own, his tie finishes tying itself and straightens itself out.

"Thanks," Oliver says, going over to grab his jacket from a nearby chair.

He adjusting his collar in the mirror when he glances up and catches her staring at him with a strange expression on her face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says, sliding off the dresser and walking towards him—and damn if the sway of her hips isn't sinful Oliver doesn't know what is. "It's just that no one's ever thanked me before either."

"Felicity," he says, resting his hands on her shoulders—her bare shoulders and her soft skin. "I am not good at this whole having-a-genie thing, but I know that I'm not going to treat you like you're a vending machine for wishes, okay."

She shakes her head. "That's not going to last. It always starts like this. You're sweet and kind and then suddenly you figure out just what kind of power I have beneath my fingertips. Then you want everything."

"Look," he says, "You were my miracle, Felicity. You brought me back here, back home, back to a normal life. I asked for the impossible, and somehow you gave it to me. Let me give you that too. We're going to figure out how to get out of this curse, whatever it takes, because I owe you a life debt. Mine for yours. You gave me back my life. Let me figure out how to give you back yours."

"I don't even know how to hope for that anymore, Oliver."

He smiles, "Well, you should."

"Why?"

"Because you just called me Oliver."

A beautiful smile blooms on her face. "I did, didn't I?"

"Yes," he says, as she winds her arms around his neck and peers up at him with bright eyes. "You did."

* * *

 

Felicity is very accustomed to being a secret. There are many reasons her Masters chose to conceal her from the world outside her bottle or their bedchambers. Most of the time it was so that she couldn't be stolen from them, though the majority liked to disguise this possessiveness by telling her it was for her own safety.

"You could be taken by someone who doesn't appreciate or love you the way I do," they would say, pressing kisses to her forehead. "I don't want to lose you."

After one got violently angry with her for stepping outside, Felicity forced herself to become used to staying away from people who weren't her Master. She blinked herself invisible or back into her bottle when people entered her Master's quarters.

There were one or two Masters who would take her out with them, dress her up nice and pretty and try to ply her with promises of a brand new life. They pledged love and devotion. They promised never to hurt her. They professed deep gratitude. They would dress her in pretty clothes and plant greedy kisses on her lips.

And always, because it was a thing they wanted, Felicity could do nothing but comply.

"Just give me this," they would say to her, "one day I will wish you free."

That day never came. The magic was too deep and too powerful. The more they wished, the more they wanted. The more they wanted, the more they got. The magic binding her to them grew more and more powerful. The more and more of herself she lost, hidden away in a bottle, while she was kept only for what she could give.

The only interaction she usually had was with her Master, and Felicity often found that she came to love and hate them in equal measure. (Although, there were some she hated much, much more than she loved.)

So when Oliver takes her hand the second morning after his return home and says, "Come down to breakfast with me," she's stunned into speechlessness.

"Felicity?" he asks when she doesn't respond.

"You want me to...come down to breakfast?" she asks. "With your family?"

"They have to meet you sometime," he answers. "And you can't stay up here forever."

Nervously, she shifts from foot to foot, hoping he won't actually order her to do this. "Why not?"

"Because there is a life outside of this room and outside of your bottle, and both of us get to live it." He's looking at her intently, and she thinks her heart is going to burst from her chest with how fast it's beating.

"I'm not supposed to have a life outside of you. For me, there is no life outside of you. There can't be."

"There _should_ be," Oliver says.

As if he understands he's unsettling her, Oliver says, "I'm not going to order you to do this."

But she can feel his want all the same. It pulls at her, unrelenting, unyielding. He wants, and every fiber of her being needs to give him what he wants. At the same time, it's very different from the sensation she's used to from a Master. He wants something for himself, yes, but he also wants something for her.

No one ever wants something for her, only from her.

So Felicity relents. "What are you going to tell them?"

"That you're a friend I met at Tommy's party last night. We made plans to hang out today."

Helpless to stop the blush that spreads across her cheeks at what his family will assume he means by 'friend', Felicity tries to conceal just how panicked that thought makes her.

"Hey," he says quickly, the hand not holding hers moving to cup her cheek. "They'll like you, I promise."

That's the last thing she's worried about.

"Can you blink yourself into something a little more modern?" Oliver asks, playfully tugging on the short silver jacket she wears over her purple top.

"Anything specific?"

"Whatever you want." He pauses for a second, then adds, "Just so long as it's from this decade."

She blinks up a bright blue dress and a pair of silver sandals, and then changes her hairstyle from a high ponytail to loose waves around her shoulders. A pair of glasses and dangly earrings are the finishing touch. "How's this?"

It takes Oliver a second to register the change, but after his eyes have swept over her body, he tells her, "Perfect."

His approval is a warm balm, as comforting as the feel of his hand in hers. He gives her a gentle tug, and even as Felicity follows Oliver down the stairs and into the dining room, he never lets go of her hand.

And her wants might be infinitely and hopelessly tangled with his wants, but she knows that this tiny thing—his hand in her hand—is something she wants for reasons beyond her purpose of fulfilling Oliver's desires. She wants this reassurance that he's with her, because the world outside of her bottle is foreign and terrifying.

The couple seated at the end of the table both look up when Oliver and Felicity enter.

"Good morning," the woman says, eyeing Felicity with clear curiosity.

"Mom," Oliver says, "This is Felicity. She's my friend. Felicity, this is my mother, Moira Queen, and my step-father, Walter Steele."

Felicity knows this. Oliver told her all about his mother and step-father a few nights ago. It's a new thing to be able to put faces to the names though.

"How did you two meet?" Moira says as Oliver pulls out Felicity's chair for her.

His movements are stilted, unsure things. All the trained courtesy is still there, but Felicity sees the worn edges that have come from its disuse. There aren't many dinner tables and chairs on a deserted island. She follows Oliver's lead by removing the cloth folded on the plate and spreading it across her lap. The entire time she feels Moira's eyes on her.

"She came to Tommy's welcome home bash last night," Oliver says, "I guess you could say we hit it off."

Moira appears unconvinced.

Oliver reaches for Felicity's hand under the table. "We made plans to spend some time together today."

"Oh," Moira says, without taking her eyes off of Felicity. "How nice."

As if oblivious to the way his wife is coolly scrutinizing Felicity, Walter makes a comment about an article he's reading in the paper. It's successful in distracting Moira for a few moments while a woman places a plate full of food in front of Oliver and another in front of Felicity.

Casually, Oliver leans over so his mouth is right next to Felicity's ear. "I asked Raisa to just make you what she usually makes me. I hope that's okay."

Felicity nods, relieved that she doesn't have to make any decisions about what to eat. Besides, the food tastes amazing.

As a genie, Felicity doesn't really need to eat. She's a supernatural creature. Food isn't a necessity for her life to continue. She knows. Several Masters withheld food from her out of spite until they realized that altered nothing until they started wishing hunger pains on her. That made it unbearable. Felicity has gone somewhere over a hundred years without actual physical food, and she could go a hundred more.

Being able to go without doesn't mean she hasn't missed the taste and feel of food in her mouth and the way it settles in her belly. She forgot how sweet fruit is, how lovely and crisp it is to bite into.

Next to her, Oliver picks at his food, and Felicity understands why. It's too much after years of not nearly enough. He does manage to eat a small bowl of fruit and a few spoonfuls of the eggs and breakfast potatoes on his plate.

Walter has assisted them once again by drawing Moira into a conversation, and Felicity's just starting to think that this whole thing is going rather well when Oliver's sister enters the dining room. Felicity recognizes her instantly from several of the framed photographs in Oliver's room.

"Oh my god, Oliver," she says. "Seriously? I know women were throwing themselves all over you at that party last night, but I didn't think you would actually bring one home—"

Felicity reaches for her glass of water, hoping to disguise the jealousy flaring in her chest. The thought of other women throwing themselves at her Master makes her see red.

"Thea," Moira says a little sharply. "We have a guest. This is Oliver's friend Felicity...I'm sorry, I don't believe I caught your last name, dear?"

Even if Felicity had the presence of mind to speak, she couldn't answer. She doesn't have a last name. She thinks she did once, when she was a human, but that's long been lost to her. She's just Felicity now.

Oliver saves her. "Smoak. Pronounced like smoke from a fire, but it's spelled differently."

Felicity wonders where on earth he came up with that, but since he saved her with it, she's not going to complain.

Thea holds out her hand. "Well, Felicity Smoak. I'm Thea Queen, Oliver's sister."

"I know. I mean—" Nervously, Felicity glances at Oliver. "Oliver's mentioned you."

Giving her brother a skeptical look, Thea pulls out a chair and practically falls into it. "I'm sure that was a fascinating conversation given how much of a screw-up he thinks I am."

Between the piercing stabs of jealous possessiveness in Felicity's chest and the fury building underneath the surface of it, she's not sure how much longer she can stay in this room without giving something away.

Tuned in to her distress, Oliver stands up and excuses them both, taking Felicity's hand and pulling her out of the room and down the hall. When they're a safe distance away, he catches her blushing face in both of his hands and looks down at her worriedly.

"Felicity, what's wrong?"

She doesn't know how to explain this part of the Genie curse. She doesn't know how to tell him that there's so much more to this arrangement that he understands. He thinks he knows. He thinks he understands what she is and what she is to him, but he doesn't have a clue.

He doesn't know that jealous rage over her Masters has eaten her up alive, turned her into something bitter and ugly. It fades over time, like most Genie magic, but it is horrible while it's happening.

And Felicity knows that it's the curse. There's no reason she should care about beautiful women flirting with Oliver, especially since she knows that he's not interested. The only person his heart is interested in right now is Laurel.

That thought is a particularly bad one to have right in that moment. Another burst of pain shoots through her body at the thought of Oliver's Laurel. Oliver is forced to quickly catch her in his arms before she looses her balance. The pain is overwhelming and white-hot in its intensity.

"Felicity," he says again, "Tell me what's wrong."

It's not an order. It doesn't sink into her bones or make her body go ridged with desire to obey. Still he _wants_.

He wants?

What does he want? It's twisted up and mixed with other things. Thea to be okay. Moira to be happy. This place to feel like home again. For Tommy's understanding. For Laurel's forgiveness. For Felicity—

 _Felicity_.

He wants Felicity to be okay.

And the throbbing ache inside her slowly recedes as that final thought consumes her: Her Master does not want her in pain.

"Thank you," she breathes, utterly astonished. That has never happened before. Never before has a Master's desire overridden one of the curse's strictures. Not in all of Felicity's six hundred years as a Genie. Never before has a Master's desire for her well-being been that strong.

"Thank you for what?" Oliver asks. He hasn't yet her go, and part of her doesn't want him to ever let her go.

"For caring," she answers. "For wanting so much for me to be okay."

"Of course I want you to be okay," he says, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Her heart leaps at the gesture. "I don't like seeing you in pain."

And a steady, comforting pulse of magic tells Felicity that he really, truly doesn't.

The bitter pain of six hundred years of experience tells her that it's still possible someday down the line he very much will.

* * *

 

To Oliver’s great amusement, Felicity spends the entire limo ride staring out the window at everything. She spent most of the trip from  _Lian Yu_  back to Starling City inside of her bottle, and this is the first time she’s stepped out of the Queen Mansion.

“The buildings have gotten so big,” she whispers, eyes bright with wonder.

“Welcome to Starling City,” Oliver says quietly, reaching for her hand. “One of these days we’ll take my motorcycle out and drive through the city at night. It’s gorgeous.”

He sees her face light up, and her excitement makes him damn near giddy. “Would you like that, Felicity?”

She nods, lips pressed together to hold back her smile.

“Great,” he says, feeling just a little bit like the old Oliver, who knew how to make the pretty girls smile with delight and go weak at the knees.

In hindsight, maybe most of that was just because of the number of digits after the dollar sign in his family’s bank accounts.

He knows he’s staring, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. He’s never really seen her out of her genie outfit before this morning. There’s something about her wearing normal clothes that grounds her into reality. Sure, she used magic to create them out of thin air, but the fact that she’s wearing them makes her all the more real.

“So,” Felicity says, “Where are you taking me?”

“It’s a surprise,” he says. “You’ll see.”

She grins at him before she turns back to the window, captivated. He understands her wonder, because he’s felt it on a smaller scale since his return. His five years gone cannot compare to her fifty, but it’s comparable all the same. They were both isolated, disconnected, friendless, helpless and hopeless.

And they both survived it.

“Oliver,” Felicity says when they’ve arrived at their destination, “I’ve been in decadent palaces and beautiful castles, but I have to say, this is by far the ugliest, most decrepit place a Master has ever taken me.”

Oliver can’t help it. He bursts out laughing.

She pouts. “Well, I’m glad you find it amusing.”

“This place belongs to my father’s company. I’m going to fix it up, Felicity,” Oliver says, taking her by the hand and pulling her farther inside the building. “Turn it into a night club.”

“This place? I could blink you up a thousand nightclubs nicer than this without you ever having to lift a finger.”

“I know,” he says, “But that’s not the point. I want…”

He lets the sentence trail off, but she finishes, “Something that’s yours.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice suddenly thick with emotion because she’s exactly right. “Something that’s mine.”

Felicity moves to the center of the room, kicking at the papers littering the floor. “Describe it to me. What do you see when you look at this place?”

And he does. He details the lighting, the bar, the deejay, the atmosphere, and as he talks, Felicity does more than listen.

She transforms the room. He mentions the floor and suddenly the surface they’re standing on is tiled and spotless; he talks about the bar and suddenly it’s there, fully stocked; he describes the lights and the dance floor and suddenly the light in the room isn’t streaking in from the open door, but glowing green-blue from the electric lights through the room.

He changes things. Things in his head that he thought would be good, but really weren’t. He asks her to alter a few things that she didn’t understand quite right.

At some point, though Oliver isn’t quite sure when, with a flick of her wrist, Felicity creates a blanket to spread across the floor and a pile of pillows on top of it. He pauses halfway through his sentence when he sees her stretched out on the floor, one knee bent in front of her, a pillow cradled in her arms as she listens to him. Somehow the sight is breathtaking.

Kneeling in front of her, Oliver takes her hands in his. It’s very hard to resist the urge to draw one of them up to his mouth so he can kiss her knuckles.

“So, what about you, Felicity?” he asks.

She gives him a quizzical look. “What about me?”

“Don’t you want something that’s yours?”

“I don’t get anything that’s mine,” she says, turning away from him.

He reaches for her impulsively, and she goes still at his touch. “There’s got to be…there’s got to be something, Felicity. Something you want.”

She shakes her head.

“Okay,” he says gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Then we’ll just find you something. There’s a huge world out there. We’ll make something that’s yours.”

“Oliver,” she says sadly, and he knows that tone. It’s the one she used when she tried to explain to him why she couldn’t use his name.

She can use his name now, and if that’s not a sign that this curse she keeps talking about can be broken, Oliver doesn’t know what is. He knows she would tell him it’s just a loophole, but that still means something. Find the right loophole, and the entire system can unravel. Oliver knows.

For a long moment, Felicity’s quiet. Then, she turns back to him and meekly says, “What will you call it?”

“Verdant,” Oliver answers, easily accepting her change of subject.

Felicity repeats the word a few times, then shrugs. “Whatever you say, Master.”

“Oliver,”  he corrects gently, though he thinks the ‘slip’ was done on purpose. Standing up, he reaches down to offer her a hand.

“Right,” she says, letting him help her to her feet. “Force of habit.”

He pulls just a little too hard, or she wasn’t truly expecting him to provide her any actual assistance, and she loses her balance as she stands, pitching forward into his arms.

He catches her easily, his arms loose around her waist as he steadies her. One of her hands grabs onto his shoulder.

“Look,” she says, “I know you’re trying to be helpful, Oliver, but it’s futile. I don’t get a life. I get a bottle and a Master, and—if I’m lucky—a few years without pain. But that’s it. That’s all I get to hope for.”

There’s a strange, heavy ache in Oliver’s chest that he can’t quite define. Before he can second-guess or stop himself, he cups her face with his hand. Immediately, she turns into the touch, closing her eyes and letting out a soft, contented hum.

Slowly, Oliver dips his head, using the hand already on her cheek to tilt her head up slightly. He pauses just a few inches away from her mouth, waiting for something.

Waiting, he realizes after a second, for Felicity to kiss him.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, the door at the far end of the room swings open, and both Felicity and Oliver turn at the sound. As the moment breaks, Oliver watches all the magic Felicity’s put into the building fade away. It dissolves back into the state of disrepair it was in before.

As Felicity backs out of his arms, Oliver feels just a little like the building. Living in a moment that didn’t exist because it was just an illusion. It wasn’t real.

Not yet, at least.

* * *

Tommy Merlyn has walked in on Oliver Queen doing some pretty questionable things over their fifteen plus years of friendship. Seeing him with his arms wrapped around a gorgeous woman hardly makes the top ten list.

Still, there’s something about the moment that feels different from the usual passionate kisses he’s interrupted. They’re both still, for one thing. Their faces are very close, Oliver’s hand is on her cheek, and his other arm is wrapped around her waist. She has the palm of her hand pressed flat against his chest, and her other hand rests against his shoulder.

Tommy lets the door slam shut behind him, and like he’s broken a sacred moment, the two of them fly apart. From what he can tell, she’s the one who moved first.

As he steps further into the old Queen factory, Tommy sees the girl step behind Oliver and partially out of his view.

Huh.

Oliver’s never been fond of the shy ones.

But that was before. Tommy’s not really sure about the Oliver of now.

Suddenly, he finds himself stamping down a wave of uneasiness. He’s…intruding on something. Something he doesn’t quite understand.

But then Oliver is striding towards Tommy with a smile on his face, and Tommy’s forgetting why he was uneasy in the first place.

Oliver’s hug is quick and familiar, and the second he steps away he turns to his companion. “Tommy Merlyn, this is Felicity Smoak; Felicity Smoak, meet my friend Tommy Merlyn.”

The way Felicity glances at Oliver—almost as if to ask his permission before shaking Tommy’s hand—doesn’t escape his notice.

Likewise, he also observes how as soon as their handshake is over, she reaches for Oliver’s hand anxiously, and he lets her take it.

Okay. So she’s probably not a quick lay, but Oliver’s only been back in the land of the living for a week. How he’s managed to find time to build what clearly looks like a relationship with this woman is beyond Tommy’s understanding.

“How did you two meet?” he asks Oliver. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Felicity bite her lip.

“At my welcome home party, actually,” Oliver says without flinching, blinking, or hesitating.

When the hell did Oliver Queen learn how to lie to him? Apart from a few minutes of conversation with Laurel, Tommy kept a very close eye on Oliver during the whole night. He would have remembered seeing him with Felicity.

Tommy makes a mental note to double check the guest list and then the list of employees working the venue. And then check again.

That’s something to do later, though. Might as well get to the reason they’re all here. Tommy moves past Oliver and Felicity to get a better view of the space.

“What do you think?” Oliver asks. “Great spot for a nightclub or what?”

He starts to explain his tentative plans for the building—the office, the bar, tables, the dance floor—and Tommy’s suddenly struck by the thought that this is an Oliver who is wholly unfamiliar to him.

“Man, are you sure you wanna do this? It’s not like you really have any experience in running a…well, running anything.”

For a second, a flash of hurt spreads across Oliver’s face, and Tommy wishes he could take the words back. He’s totally misjudged the amount of emotional investment Oliver has in this idea. It’s not the first time he’s experienced this weird disconnect between the Oliver he once knew and the Oliver that came back, but feels like it stings just a little more.

Tommy might not know him, but that doesn’t lessen the fact that he wants to know him. He wants to know every version of Oliver Queen.

But first he needs to make amends.

"How about tomorrow night we go and scope out the competition. There’s a new club opening downtown. It’s called Poison. Max Fuller owns it.

"Max Fuller?” Oliver says, a little skeptically.

“Uh-huh.”

Oliver glances at Felicity quickly, before saying, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I slept with his fiancée.”

“Yeah,” Tommy acknowledges, not missing the way Felicity tenses or the silent communication that seems to pass between the two of them when Oliver turns to look at her. “Before the wedding.”

Oliver winces. “It was at the rehearsal dinner.”

“The rehearsal dinner is technically before the wedding,” Tommy says. "And besides, who stays mad at a castaway.”

Tommy’s phone buzzes, and he glances down at it.

 _Laurel_.

Oliver doesn’t know about them yet, and Tommy would rather him not find out like this, so he flashes Oliver and Felicity a grin.

“I’ve got to roll,” he says. “Tomorrow night, Poison. You should come too, Felicity.”

It’s not an afterthought. This entire situation is confusing as hell, and as much as he wouldn’t care if he never laid eyes on Felicity Smoak again, he needs to figure out what’s going on here. None of this is sitting right. Oliver just got back from five years of hell. No way is Tommy letting some flighty gold-digger screw with his best friend’s heart. Not when he’s…

Vulnerable?

Tommy mulls that word over in his mind for a little bit, then lets it settle in. That’s exactly it. Oliver is vulnerable right now, whether or not he realizes it.

For a brief moment, he considers the possibility that the club was Felicity’s idea, but that doesn’t feel right. She’d been quiet through the whole meeting. She’d actually seemed incredibly tense the entire time. Maybe worried that he’d sense something was off with her? If that was the case, then she was right to be worried.

Tommy might not be sure exactly what it is, but something isn’t right here.

And he’s not resting until he figures out exactly what it is.

* * *

The club is loud. Felicity sticks close to Oliver’s side as they weave through a throng of people. She’s no stranger to being shown off. When Masters did let her out of her bottle, out of their chambers, out into the world, it was always so she could be seen as one of their possessions.

She wonders if that’s how Tommy sees her: as Oliver’s plaything. Something pretty and useful but ultimately nothing more. He looks at her in a way she’s unaccustomed to people looking at her.

Men who are not her Masters look at her with want, with envy, with desire.

They don’t look at her with confusion. They don’t look at her with distrust.

They don’t.

But that is how Tommy Merlyn looks at her. Felicity can’t decide quite how she feels about that. It’s new, and the newness of it is almost refreshing, if not for the fact that Oliver really wants the two of them to get along. His distrust of her is not something that is going to lead to them getting along.

When they reach the bar, Tommy immediately approaches a brunette woman in a black dress who is standing with her back to them. Oliver’s hold on Felicity tightens as he pulls her back slightly, stopping her from moving any closer to them. She already feels unsteady on her feet, but the pressure of Oliver’s hand on the small of her back helps her keep her balance.

“Oh, wow,” Tommy says, mirth in his voice. “Doesn’t you going out and having fun violate some kind of law, you know, like the ones that are carved on a stone tablet?”

The woman spins, curls swishing around her shoulders. “That’s cute, Tommy.”

He grins at her. “Thanks.”

Her eyes linger on Felicity for a few seconds before she glances between the two men. “I can see you’re up to your old hunting patterns.”

“I’m just seeing what passes for fun in Starling City after five years.” Oliver’s tone is deceptively even. Felicity shifts even closer to him.

He wants to be anywhere but right here.

“Ah,” the brunette says. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find that it just hasn’t been the same without you.”

She turns to Felicity. “Laurel Lance,” she says, holding out her hand for Felicity to shake. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

“Felicity.” She swallows, and remembering that last names are important now, she adds, “Smoak.”

It doesn’t escape her notice that this is Oliver’s Laurel. This is the Laurel his heart wants. That his heart wanted—she mentally amends, because in the past few days that want has faded and reoriented itself in another direction.

Oliver wants someone to spend his days with. He wants a partner in his life. He wants to not be alone again. The person he wants that with just isn’t Laurel anymore.

It’s Felicity.

And whether that’s Oliver or the curse is something Felicity doesn’t know, but the fleeting burst of hope that fills her chest is something Felicity does recognize as extremely dangerous.

It also doesn’t escape her notice that Laurel doesn’t hold any romantic feelings toward Oliver. Felicity would notice if she did. The curse would ensure it. Jealousy and envy would eat her alive.

Instead, there’s just nothing.

Part of her wonders, if maybe it’s good that Oliver’s attention is elsewhere. Another part of her is aware that maybe it’s also bad, because Felicity can’t be that person for him. She can’t be. It will destroy them both. She’s watched it happen too many times with too many Masters.

“How did you two meet?” Laurel asks, gesturing between Felicity and Oliver.

“My welcome home party,” Oliver answers smoothly.

“Funny thing about that,” Tommy says, turning to Felicity. “I know that guest list inside and out. You weren’t on it.“

"I was—”

“Working at the venue,” says Oliver quickly. “That’s why she wasn’t on the list.”

Tommy was clearly not prepared for that answer, because he opens his mouth to say something, but he’s stopped by Thea Queen literally crashing into Oliver. Felicity finds herself stepping back quickly, away from the security of Oliver’s arms and closer to Tommy.

“Big Brother,” Thea slurs, holding onto Oliver’s shoulder to steady herself. “Oh. I am so wasted right now, there is — there is two of you.”

Oliver’s face is stone cold. “I thought you were grounded.”

“I am,” Thea answers tersely. “And thank you—thank you for that, by the way.”

“You’re done for the night,” Oliver says, and he starts to lead her away.

Felicity stays still, not sure if she should wait with Tommy and Laurel or follow Oliver and Thea.

Tommy’s waved over a bartender and is ordering a drink, while Laurel looks more than a little curious about the argument that’s broken out between Oliver and Thea, which leaves Felicity standing alone off to the side.

“You’re one to talk,” she can hear Thea say. “How much do you know about your own so-called friends over here? How well do you even know the girl you’re screwing?”

“Leave her out of this,” Oliver says, at the same time Tommy interjects, “Oh, Thea, maybe you should—”

Felicity is distracted from the rest of their conversation by a man putting a hand on her shoulder. She jumps.

“Sorry,” he says with a smile that tells her he is anything but sorry. “You’re just far too pretty to be here alone; let me buy you a drink.”

His hand is still on her shoulder, grazing against her bare skin and she doesn’t want his touch there. A flash of nausea hits, heavy in her stomach.

This man wants her.

This man wants her magic.

And he doesn’t even know it, but he’s drawn to her. He craves her, craves her bottle, craves her curse, and he’s completely unaware that’s what it is.

“Leave me alone,” Felicity says.

She could do any number of things to dissuade him. She could blink and the server behind him could dump their tray of drinks over his head; she could make him slip and lose his footing for no reason; or cause his pants to fall down by blinking his belt away.

All those things involve causing a scene, and there’s already one happening a few feet to her left. She pulls away from him, shooting a futile glance at Oliver, but he’s distracted with Thea and Tommy. The stranger reaches for her again, and she shudders when he grips her arm tightly.

“Take your hands off of me,” Thea yells. “You’re not my father, and you’re barely my brother.”

Thea stomps off, and Oliver turns to Felicity.

She feels the moment he sees the stranger’s hands on her.

“Hey,” the man says, “Don’t run away from me.”

And before Felicity can quite literally blink, Oliver is right there, prying the man’s hand off of her and using his grip on his wrist to twist the stranger’s arm behind his back.

“You don’t touch her,” he growls.

That’s the moment security steps in. Tommy says Oliver’s name, and he lets the stranger go with a harsh shove.

“Well, well, look at this,” the stranger says, pulling his arm away when Oliver slowly lets him go. Haughtily, he adjusts his jacket and tie, smoothing out fresh wrinkles.  “Oliver Queen.”

“Max Fuller.” Oliver says. “How you been?

“Happy you drowned,” Max answers, and Felicity thinks it’s too bad she didn’t upend a tray of drinks over his head.

Suddenly, security is whisking Oliver away. Felicity tries to follow them, but Tommy holds up a hand. “I got this,” he says before he runs after them.

Glancing at Laurel, Felicity asks, “Does he have this?”

Laurel rolls her eyes. “Hell no.”

They both hesitate for just a second before they rush after Tommy. They burst into the room just as the fight breaks out. Laurel doesn’t even pause before she goes after Max, taking him down easily while Felicity quickly blinks twice to cause Oliver and Tommy to easily evade the blows of the men fighting them.

“So is this over, Max?” Laurel asks. “Or are you gonna have your boys pound on me next?”

Max looks mortified as he stands to his feet. He points at all of them. “You four consider yourselves banned for life. Get the hell out of my place!”

“Your club sucks anyway,” Tommy yells after him.

Every fiber in Felicity’s body wants to throw herself into Oliver’s arms—to make sure he’s okay, to apologize for not protecting him better, to resettle herself after that man put his hands on her—but she holds herself back while Oliver and Laurel briefly talk.

“Tommy and I don’t need your blessing,” Laurel tells Oliver. “And I don’t need your forgiveness.”

Then, she turns to Felicity. “You okay?”

Felicity nods.

“Good.” Laurel tips her head toward Oliver. “Watch yourself around that one. I’m sure you think you know what you’re getting into, but chances are, you don’t.”

“I think I know him pretty well,” Felicity says, and Laurel almost smiles.

“For your sake,” Laurel says. “I hope you’re right.”

* * *

Outside the club, Oliver holds onto Felicity’s hand as he helps her into the car. He still feels anxious, like he wants to crawl out of his own skin. He wants to punch something—someone—or work himself to exhaustion, anything to get this burning anger and frustration and helplessness out from inside him.

But Felicity has barely said a word to him, and that’s probably the worst part of it all. He’s not sure what exactly happened in the club that upset her, but something did and it’s clearly still bothering her.

He wonders for a moment if it was the same thing in the hallway after breakfast the other day, the thing she refused to explain.

“Are you okay?” he asks finally, once he's settled next to her, the partition between them and their driver is up, and the car is moving. “He didn’t hurt you, right?”

She shakes her head solemnly. “Not yet.”

“Not yet?” Oliver asks. “What does that mean?”

“He wanted me—and not like the way you’re thinking. He wanted my power, the bottle’s power.”

That’s absurd. “How could he possibly know you were a genie?”

“He didn’t,” Felicity says. “He probably didn’t even understand what was happening. The bottle still draws people to itself, to me, like magnets. The curse always wants me to have a Master.” She pauses for a moment, then lowers her voice to a whisper when she asks, “How is it you think that you found me? Chance? Coincidence? Fate?”

Oliver doesn’t know how to reply to that. He always assumed that’s what it was. He never once considered that he was drawn to her, pulled to her, lead to her by some otherworldly force.

He never thought the bottle could have intentionally singled him out. That it could have chosen him. At the same time, he remembers the moment he saw it glimmering in the sand, how he was so curious about what it was and how it ended up there.

The thought that Max would  _want_ to take Felicity away without even knowing why, without even knowing  _her_ —like she’s just a thing to be possessed by them, by her Masters—is simultaneously rage-inducing and terrifying.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have been paying closer attention to you.”

As if she knows where his train of thought is taking him, Felicity says, “He can’t take me, Oliver. He can’t take me from you. Not without opening the bottle. You don’t have to worry. He’ll more than likely forget about me, pass me off as just a girl who rejected him in a bar.”

“I’m sure that happens to him a lot,” Oliver says, and it seems to lighten the mood a little because Felicity actually smiles for a heartbeat.

“He would have been one of the bad ones,” she says. “I could tell.”

Oliver can’t quite disagree with her there. It’s easy to imagine Max Fuller’s strong ambitions becoming incredibly threatening to Felicity under the curse's influence.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he takes Felicity’s hand instead. At his touch, she turns toward him.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

Thea hates him. She’s in pain, she’s spiraling, and he doesn’t know how to help her. Tommy and Laurel are sleeping together, which is more or less something he’s been assuming since his return. He has his own genie, and his relationship with her is either going to end with him tangled up in a genie curse he doesn’t understand or with her being forcibly taken from him.

Or her freedom. Oliver would really like for this particular part of his life to end with Felicity being free.

For now, Felicity isn’t pressing him for an answer to her question. Instead, she scoots closer to him and rests her head on his shoulder.

“Can we go home?” she asks.

“Yes,” Oliver says, glancing down at her hand in his. “We can go home.”

* * *

 

Felicity hasn't slept well in over six hundred years.

During the first two hundred years of her magical servitude, her insomnia had been a combination of her circumstances and her forced attachment to a string of Masters who cared little about her personal comfort. When she did have time to sleep, the circumstances and stress of her situation as a personal genie prevented it. Her bottle was small and cramped, but to be out of her bottle was to be bent and conformed to her Master's every whim.

The middle hundred years were a back-and-forth of bad Masters and only slightly bad Masters, with the occasional even worse Master sprinkled in for variety. Sleep was easy to find in those overworked years. True rest was another story.

She hasn't been able to rest in centuries.

Oliver, for all his faults and hurts and scars, treats her with more dignity and kindness than any Master she's ever had before. Even the kinder ones. Even the ones who promised to set her free, who tried to win her over with flattery and sweet kisses and promises of liberation.

She's often thought that those who treated her with kindness actually hurt her more. Because it always dissipated. It always melted into greed and lust and wretchedness. Always.

There were things she was asked to do, things she was ordered and forced to do, that she doesn't want to think about. Doesn't want to dream about. Eventually, Masters figured out that she was good for more than fulfilling a few easy wishes. Eventually, they used her in ways she'd rather not reflect upon. Those moments might remain buried during the day, but they creep upon her at night. They torment her mind and chase away any peace.

They do not grant her sleep.

But Oliver doesn't sleep either.

He tries; they both do. He settles down on his bed and folds his arms back behind his head. Felicity sits cross-legged on the mattress next to him and stares up at the ceiling, like if he can see something interesting up there, maybe she can too.

After minutes and minutes of quiet, after they've tried to find comfort in blissful slumber, Oliver speaks.

They should have run out of conversation nights ago, but somehow it's still there, easy and steady.

Sometimes she tells him about places she's been. She's seen so much of the world—so much of it has been ugly, but Felicity's very existence is ugly, and she's grown accustomed to hiding the repulsiveness of it with an easy smile and bright colors.

Sometimes he talks about his life before the island, but Felicity feels the shallowness of it, and she knows he does too. He's not that person anymore. He spent five years in hell before her found her—found her bottle, really—and she's the reason he's back home. No other rescue was coming.

And considering Felicity's last half-century was spent in that bottle on that beach, well, the world has changed a lot for both of them.

"Do they hurt you?" Oliver asks, running his fingers over the silver bracelets—shackles—around each wrist.

"Yes," she answers. "Sometimes."

"How?"

"They tighten," she answers.

"When?" he asks softly. She gives him a look, and he continues, "When do they tighten? Do you notice?"

She stays quiet, because while the answer is something she has figured out long ago, it's also something she has never, ever told another human.

"Felicity," Oliver says, "Tell me."

It's not an order. She tells him anyway.

"When my Master wishes for something, the bonds tighten around my wrists."

Oliver threads his fingers through hers. "Do you know why?"

"Genie magic is...legislated," Felicity tells him. "There is an order to it. It obeys laws, just specific ones. I wasn't born a genie. I was cursed. This—" she gestures to the metal on her wrist—"Is a curse. It's not supposed to be happy."

"Who cursed you?"

Carefully, she sidesteps that question by repeating information she's sure she's already told him. "Curses obey two things: the laws of magic and the stipulations of the curse. Genie curses are forever. I'm cursed with immortality and with magic, but I can only access that magic through the bottle that I'm tethered to. The bottle that I am trapped in decides who my Master is. Each wish someone makes me grant only serves to strengthen that bond."

"What happens if I don't wish for anything?"

"I don't know," Felicity says. "No one's ever not wished for anything before. Usually people have genies and they wish for everything."

"There was only one thing I wanted, Felicity." That this was to go home remains unspoken, and she hates that even she wasn't able to grant him that. She gave him the literal meaning of his wish, but not the emotional one, and that saddens her. She wishes she knew how to help him return home when every part of him still thinks its back on an island.

"Oliver," she says sadly, and she can't stop the way she reaches for him, can't stop her fingers from caressing his cheek. He closes his eyes at her touch. "You're playing at nobility, but that's not going to last. Soon enough, something is going to happen and you're going to need me to do something for you."

"What if I don't?"

"You will."

"Feli—" he starts, but she presses her fingers to his lips.

"Listen to me," she says, trying to ignore the thrill that shoots through her body. "I am cursed, but so are you. The magic needs you to wish. It needs to keep me bound. This is powerful, powerful stuff you are dealing with. No human before has been strong enough to resist it. All of them cave. All of them give in. You're not going to be any different."

He takes her hand to remove it from his mouth. "What if I am?"

"You won't be," she says sadly, turning away from him. "No one ever is."

"Look at me," he says, sitting up. Again, it's not an order and she doesn't have to, but she does. "I want you to be free, Felicity."

"I don't even remember what freedom is anymore, Oliver."

His hand rests on her shoulder, thumb rubbing back and forth against her skin. "Let me help you fix that."

It's hopeless, she wants to tell him. There is no way to help her.

But she's the one who's helpless when Oliver cups her face with his hands and draws her close. The kiss, when it happens, is soft and sweet. He doesn't push, he doesn't press for anything more than just that kiss, but she knows it something that he wants, knows it in that intimate way she knows all his wants, all his needs, all his deepest desires. She knows him inside and out because she is supposed to be every one of those things. She is the thing he wants and the thing he needs and the thing he desires above all else. It is her purpose, her function.

This is not the first time one of her Masters has kissed her, but it is the first time Felicity has wanted her Master's kiss.

And if that isn't a sign of impending catastrophe, she doesn't know what is.

 


	2. I Need You To Need Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Abbie and Kat for keeping me sane through the writing of just about all of this chapter. If you've been keeping up with this fic on tumblr, there **will** be one relatively _new_ scene in here, though it _is_ on tumblr. It's just all pretty and polished.

Felicity makes no secret about the fact that she finds the Queen family breakfasts uncomfortable. Since Oliver’s just fine with not letting his family know that she is literally living in a _bottle_ in his room, he’s never bothered to make her go after that first morning. Sometimes she chooses to all on her own, but most mornings she blinks herself back into her bottle as soon as Oliver leaves.

It’s after one of these Felicity-less breakfasts that Moira catches Oliver on his way back upstairs.

“Oliver,” Moira says. “We need to talk about Felicity.”

Oliver keeps his face carefully schooled into a neutral expression. He’s been waiting for this conversation. “What about her?”

“Darling,” Moira reaches for him, but he leans back just a touch, so her fingers only brush against his arm. If his mother is hurt, she doesn’t let it deter her. “You’ve barely been back, and already this woman is…”

“Is what?” He doesn’t mean it to sound like a challenge, necessarily, but he doesn’t want Moira to finish that thought.

“In your bed,” Moira finishes, and Oliver bristles. He doesn’t bother to correct her, however. “And in your heart. I’m concerned your heart is a little too fragile right now.”

Oliver takes a deep breath.  “I’ve been alone.”

“Yes, Oliver.”

“No, Mom. _Alone_.” She won’t understand; he knows this. There’s no way to explain this kind of alone, no way to put it into words.

Her hand is still on his arm, a steady, gentle pressure. “I don’t want to see someone take advantage of that.”

“She’s not taking advantage of me. You don’t have to worry.”

Moira’s tone softens. “It’s my _job_ to worry, Oliver. I had someone do some digging on her.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Carefully, Oliver shifts so she’s no longer touching him.

“Oliver—”

“Mom,” he says firmly. “No. I don’t want you looking into her. I don’t want _anyone_ looking into her, do you hear me?”

Moira bristles. “Oliver, I only have your best interests at heart.”

“And I’m looking out for _her_ best interests,” Oliver says sharply. “Don’t dig into her. Trust _me_. Even if you don’t trust her right now, _trust me_.”

It must be killing her, Oliver thinks, not to know, not to understand. Moira was once the first person he would go to if he were ever in trouble. She was once the first person who heard his secrets, reassured him that all would be well.

But Oliver has spent five years without her. Five years of separation. Five years of learning to rely on no one but himself. He does not need Moira now, even if he needed her _then_.

It’s going to take a while for their relationship to find balance again. Part of him wonders if it ever will.

When Oliver makes it back to his room, he finds Felicity sitting in the alcove in front of his window, knees pressed against her chest. Her hair is up in it’s usual high-ponytail, the blonde curls brushing against the back of her neck. She’s dressed in a different version of what Oliver’s come to think of as her ‘genie outfit’. Oliver finds his attention momentarily drawn to the dark purple slippers on her feet, the way the toes of the shoes curve up, and the little golden bells attached to the tips.

She doesn’t turn to look at him as he approaches, even when he sets a hand on her shoulder.

“Felicity? I need you to do me a favor,” Oliver says, sitting down beside her. As he lets his hand fall from her shoulder, he fights the urge to reach for her hand, to stay physically connected to her.

“People don’t ask me for favors.”

“I’m _asking_ ,” Oliver says again. “For a _favor_.”

Now she looks up at him, eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t need to ask me for anything.”

“ _Felicity_. I know how this all works. And I’m telling you I’m going to ask you something, and if you don’t want to do it, I want you to tell me _no_.”

For a long moment, all she does is stare at him, like she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing.

Then: “Okay.”

“You’ll tell me no?”

“If I don’t want to do it,” Felicity says softly. “I will tell you _no_.”

He breathes out. “Good. Tommy is throwing a benefit dinner for Laurel tomorrow night, and I was wondering—” Oliver clears his throat. “Would you… would you like to come with me?”

He watches her face carefully. For a moment, she looks pensive, then—

“It’s a party?”

“Yes.”

Felicity nods slowly, like she’s taking a moment to process that. “Why don’t you want to go by yourself?”

He hesitates. The Oliver Queen he was five years ago would have gone without a second thought, but now…

“It’s overwhelming,” he says, after a long moment of silence. “There are so many people, and more often than not they’re all looking at me, like they can figure out everything about me just by _staring_.”

“So why me?”

Oliver rubs the back of his neck, unease settling into his stomach. “Because you _understand_. More than anyone else, Felicity. When I’m there, back out in the world...” He draws a blank trying to describe the sensation. “It’s like I want to crawl out of my own _skin_. Like I know I’ll go crazy if I have to stay in that moment for even one more second. So I just end up shutting down in order to get through everything. I don’t… I don’t like the person that I am when my brain just checks out like that.”

Felicity stares at the toes of her shoes while he talks. Her lips are pressed together, and her expression is pensive.

“When I’m with you,” Oliver says with his heart in his throat. “When I’m with you, none of that happens. I’m just. I’m _okay_. I can breathe.”

Now she looks up, meets his gaze with hers. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll go with you.”

“Yeah?” he asks, just to be sure.

“Yes.” She slides her legs to one side, adjusting the way she’s sitting and reaching over to cover his left hand with hers.

Oliver turns his hand over, lacing their fingers together. He tries not to stare at the silver manacle wrapped around her wrist. “I have to do a lot of work on Verdant today. Meet with a few more contractors. Did you want to come with me, or did you want to stay here?”

“Why would I come with you?”

“Because,” Oliver says, standing up. He tips her chin up with the side of his forefinger. “You have a better idea of what the inside of the club should look like, and frankly I’m terrible at describing it. Magic yourself up some fake business cards, and we’ll call you my interior designer.”

He loses himself for a moment then, gaze slipping from her face to the wall behind her, a little more lost than he was before. Oliver shakes his head slowly, blinks a few times. He struggles to drag himself back to the present, back to Felicity, whose eyes haven’t left his face.

“Better yet,” he says. “We’ll just call you my partner.”

Uncertainty hits the moment Oliver turns away. He stops halfway to his dresser, wondering whether or not he should face her again. Ultimately, he decides he can’t look at her face, doesn’t want to see her expression when he says what he says next. “Unless you don’t want anything to do with it.”

He hears her stand, hears the bells on her shoes jingle. “No,” Felicity says. “I’m just… not used to this.”

“To what?”

“To being involved. To being wanted for _more_.” She’s moving closer now.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that… you want me to come to a dinner with you, but not because you want to show me off. You want me to help you with your business, but not because you want me to use my magic.”

She’s standing right behind him. All he has to do is turn just slightly and he can look at her. Oliver just doesn’t want to. She’s right. He doesn’t want her magic, doesn’t care about it. Doesn’t want to let it become a poison that sinks into his bones.

Felicity’s hand hovers over his shoulder, but she doesn’t actually touch him.

He very desperately wants her to, but he pushes those feelings aside. Tries to focus on something else. Felicity pulls her hand away. Oliver swallows down his disappointment.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

* * *

 

In order to keep up the illusion that Felicity is a normal human person with a normal human life, she and Oliver do take certain magical measures, when they can. As far as Moira, Walter, and Thea know, Felicity is a friend of Oliver’s. Sometimes they spend their nights together.

When it comes time to go to the fundraiser Tommy throws Laurel, Oliver takes her out to lunch. She uses a bit of her own magic to appear a few blocks away from the Queens’ mansion, and he picks her up in his Porsche.

“This is ridiculous,” Felicity mutters when Oliver orders the most expensive bottle of wine. “You realize all you’d have to do is just say the word, and I could have an incredible feast spread out before you. Servants and elephants and magic carpets—”

“You’re doing something nice for me,” he says, matter of fact. “By coming to the benefit tonight.”

She raises an eyebrow. “What’s your point?”

“You’re doing something nice for me; I’m doing something nice for you.”

“Lunch?”

“You like food,” Oliver says. “You missed it. We both did.”

She fights against giving him a smile, but something about the light in his eyes makes the struggle futile. “There will be food tonight.”

He grins. “Not _this_ food.” Their server arrives with the bottle of wine. “And I’m pretty sure not this vintage.”

Felicity feels herself melt a little when she takes her first sip of the _Lafite Rothschild_. “I love red wine. Wine is one of those few things that’s still good. I can’t get buzzed though. Not even a _little_ tipsy.

“No hangovers though,” Oliver points out. “That’s a silver lining.”

She takes another taste of wine. “There aren’t too many of those—silver linings, I mean. I guess I’ll take them when I can get them.”

He orders her entree for her—”I want you to try this; if you don’t like it we’ll just order you something else, but it’s my favorite dish here, and I want you to try it.”—and Felicity is surprised to find out that she does in fact enjoy what he’s ordered for her. It’s pasta, with shrimp and cheese and cream, and it’s _delightful_. She eats it slowly, bite-by-bite, savoring each bit. Food is one of the few perks of being out of her bottle, when her Masters let her have it.

Oliver doesn’t just _allow_. He encourages. He _buys_ her food. It’s the strangest, most wonderful thing.

He also insists that they order dessert. When Felicity can’t decide, he places an order for two: one to split, and one to take home.

“For later,” he says with a wink.

They show up a little late to the benefit. Oliver keeps his arm around Felicity’s waist or his hand pressed against the small of her back, and she’s not sure whether he’s using the touch to ground her or to keep himself steady. Perhaps it is both. They drink champagne and mingle and Felicity loses track of how many people she meets.

Many of them are people Oliver knew from before the island. They greet him with clasps on the back or shoulders that Felicity knows he doesn't want. They smile at him behind glasses of wine or champagne. Some are loud and blunt. They scrape at Felicity's calm like sandpaper. Oliver plays his part dutifully, smiles and jokes and stories that begin with, "Hey, remember when we..."

Others are awkward, uncomfortable. They do not know what to do or what to say. She likes those kinds better. Oliver pretends just a little less, is himself just a little more. He smiles kindly at one of his mother's old friends who looks almost in tears to see him healthy and whole. He takes her hand and tells her honestly that being back is an adjustment, but one that he's slowly making.

He introduces Felicity "Smoak" every time. Most of the men offer her a casual smile, send congratulatory grins in Oliver's direction. Some of the women try to engage her in conversation. She spends a delightful fifteen minutes talking about this charity where one of Moira's friends works.

They also meet a few of Laurel's friends from CNRI. And then the woman herself comes over midway through the evening, politely thanking them both for attending.

Felicity should be in pain. She should _hate_ seeing this woman here, talking to Oliver.

But it's the same as it was in the club. Oliver's heart wants other things. Laurel—in a romantic sense—is not on that list.

And even if she _were_ , he still wants Felicity to be okay. So she is.

But then someone approaches Oliver, and he turns to speak with them, leaving Laurel and—

"Felicity," Laurel says. "I’m glad you and Oliver could come. We didn't get to talk much the other night."

“No,” Felicity says softly. “We didn’t.”

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

Felicity’s not quite sure how to answer that question. “Everything’s very…” Nervously, she glances around the room, feeling like no matter what she says next, it’ll be the wrong answer. “Lovely.”

Laurel smiles. “Good, I’m glad.”

Felicity thinks she should say _something_ , but what that could be is an idea that completely escapes her.

Coming unwittingly to her rescue, Tommy saunters up to the two of them. Smoothly, he slides an arm around Lauren's waist. "Hi, gorgeous," he says. "Can I have steal you away for this dance?"

"No," Laurel says, "You'll have to borrow me. I still need to talk to people after."

"You drive a hard bargain, but I'll take it."

As they walk off to the dance floor, Oliver suddenly appears beside Felicity. He places his hand on the small of her back, his thumb rubbing back and forth against her spine. "We should dance."

She turns to look at him, curls bobbing around her shoulders. "We should?"

"Why not?"

"I'm not sure _how_?"

"Oh," Oliver says. "It's easy. If I can do it, you can do it."

"Really?"

"Really," he promises, a playful lilt to his voice. "C'mon, what are you afraid of? I won't step on your toes. All you have to do is follow me."

Drawing in a deep breath, Felicity takes his hand and lets him lead her out onto the floor. There something slow and jazzy playing. Felicity doesn't recognize it, but she doesn't recognize much music these days. Anything after the 50s is kind of a blur, even though Oliver _has_ given her this little device that will play an overwhelming number of songs. Felicity spent the better part of an afternoon figuring it out, even going so far as to try taking it apart—which was next to impossible.

(Oliver's promised to help her find a computer she can take apart. She's developed quite an interest in all the new technology. It's _so_ far from what she most recently remembers that it's almost mind-boggling. Together they've found quite a few books on computers for her to read. She's spent almost all of the time she's not helping with Verdant pouring through them with great interest.)

Carefully, Felicity glances at the rest of the couples swaying together on the floor. Most of them aren't doing anything incredibly complicated. She mimics the ladies, placing her left hand on Oliver's shoulder and keeping her right hand in his. After that, she just sways in the same way he does, slow and easy.

At some point she closes her eyes, lets him tug her closer. Soon her head is resting against his chest. He's the perfect height for that.

One song melts into two, then three, then four, and then Felicity loses count. Suddenly, Oliver's kissing her forehead and saying, "C'mon. Let's go home."

She doesn't tell him that home is right where she's standing.

Next to him.

* * *

 

It throws Tommy off, walking into the Queens’ living room one day to see Felicity Smoak’s feet in Oliver Queen’s lap.

It’s a strange moment. Oliver’s attention is completely focused on the tablet in his right hand. Felicity is reading what looks like _The Internet for Dummies_.

There’s a sassy one liner on his tongue, but it never makes it to his lips as he stops and studies them.

They’re just existing. There. Together. Oliver’s hand is on her ankle, fingers rubbing against the side of her calf—and she’s wearing a dress, so his fingers are caressing her bare skin. It’s oddly intimate, considering _other_ things Tommy has walked in on Oliver doing with pretty girls.

They’re both so deep into their own little world that neither of them seem to notice Tommy standing in the doorway until he waltzes further into the room and sits down on a nearby armchair.

Felicity flinches, but Oliver just looks up at him. “Hey. What’s going on?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Tommy says. "About Verdant."

Oliver's attention shifts completely. He sets down the tablet and shifts towards Tommy. "What about it?"

There's no malice in his tone, no concern, nothing but simple curiosity.

Ignoring the lump of nervousness in his stomach, Tommy says. "I want to invest."

"Okay," Oliver says without flinching. "How much?"

Tommy blinks, surprised. "I'm serious."

"I know," Oliver tells him. "So am I. I just want to ask you what you'd like your involvement to be, because I'd love to have you working with me on every part of this, if that's something you'd be interested in."

"Honestly, Oliver, my father _is_ threatening to cut me off if I don't do something productive again, but that's not _why_. I just finished throwing this fundraiser for Laurel, and I _loved_ doing it. I know they're not exactly the same, but they're close and… you and I together, we've always been great."

Without another word, Oliver stands up and holds out his hand, Solemnly, Tommy shakes it. Then, Oliver breaks into a big smile, and Tommy follows his example, and the hug that follows is certain and easy. Oliver clasps him by the shoulder when they let go, then turns to offer a hand to Felicity. "C'mon. We've got to get our partner up to speed. He can't get on board without knowing exactly what he's getting into."

Felicity doesn't say anything, but there's a glint in her eyes and a smile on her lips when she takes Oliver's hand.

Verdant is quite a bit different from the last time Tommy was there. At the moment, it's a construction zone. Oliver gives him a thorough tour, making sure to specify things that he and Felicity have been planning on developing, but haven't had a chance to finalize yet. Felicity points out a few areas where they're having a hard time deciding what they want to do, walking him through different options and their pros and cons.

"I hate to ask this," Tommy says, "But are you an investor?"

She shakes her head quickly at the same time Oliver says, "Yes."

They look at each other. Tommy raises an eyebrow.

"I'm just helping," Felicity says quickly. "It's been fun. But I don't have any money invested in the business."

Oliver meets Tommy's eyes and maintains steady eye contact. "She's my partner. If you're in this with us, she's your partner too. That's the only way this works."

Tommy holds out a hand to Felicity. "I guess I should have done this earlier."

After a quick glance at Oliver, who makes an almost imperceptible nod, Felicity shakes it. She pulls her hand away quickly after, but she shakes it. Oliver rubs the back of his neck, but then hastily grabs for Felicity's hand before it falls back to her side. Tommy catches the awkwardness of the gesture, but Felicity doesn't seem to, because she goes right along with it as if nothing is wrong.

"Let me show you the second floor," Oliver says. He keeps Felicity's hand in his as they carefully climb up the stairs. Tommy follows a little bit behind them. There's nothing but a temporary wood railing along the edge looking down onto the area Oliver told him will be the dance floor.

“I do have one question,” Tommy says,”Will I be getting dental, because this smile wasn’t cheap?”

Oliver doesn’t try to hide his grin. “I’ll look into it.”

They tour both Oliver’s office and the manager’s office before returning to the railing to look down at the dance floor. The three of them stand side-by-side, Felicity in between them.

“It should look pretty good,” Oliver says, “If we get the lighting right. You can practically see everything from up here.”

Right now all they can see is a lot of equipment spread out across the cement floor, but Tommy can imagine it will look awesome once it’s done. Very atmospheric.

Nodding, Tommy turns towards Oliver, shifting his body so he can lean his elbow against the railing. “So, what’s with all the green, you got an interest in—”

Later, he won’t be sure what does it, whether he leans too much of his weight on something that can’t support it, or if his balance is just off.

All he knows is that there’s a loud _crack_.

And then he’s falling.

* * *

Felicity screams and almost loses her footing when the railing breaks. Suddenly Oliver’s arms are sure and steady around her middle, pulling her firmly away from the edge. As soon as she’s safe, he runs for the stairs. Taking hesitant, yet quick steps towards the edge, Felicity looks over.

Blood has begun to pool on the ground around Tommy. He fell right onto an area of the floor where they were about to lay new concrete.

There’s a strand of rebar sticking out of his chest, blood soaking into the shirt around it. As Felicity stares down, open-mouthed, her gut twisting with horror, Oliver falls to his knees next to Tommy.

The way he says Tommy’s name is a prayer.

In a blink, Felicity is at Oliver’s side. She stands over them, while Oliver cups Tommy’s cheek with his hand and tells him not to talk.

Oliver turns his head in her direction but doesn’t take his eyes off of Tommy. “Felicity get my phone and dial 911.”

Numbly, she shakes her head, even as she magically makes the phone appear in her hands and begins to dial. “They won’t get here in time.”

“Felicity—”

“Oliver,” she yells, and the word echoes in the empty space. Her thumb hovers over the call button on the screen. “He is running out of time. I can’t help him if he dies.”

“Call 911,” he tells her again. “They will _get here_.”

She doesn’t want to cry, but her eyes are already stinging. She gets down on her knees beside Oliver, puts her hand on his shoulder. “No they won’t, but I can help him. You just have to ask.”

“I can’t, I—” He actually turns to meet her eyes then, and he looks so lost. All this _want want want_ pulsing inside him and Felicity can _feel_ it. Knows way down in her bones how much he wants Tommy.

— _can’t lose him, can’t—_

“Oliver,” she says again, past the tightness in her throat. His left hand is still on Tommy’s cheek, so she grabs for his right hand. That’s the moment the tears start to come. “Please, I am _begging you_. Make a wish.”

There is no part of her that does not know what she’s asking. She’s not sure that _Oliver_ does, kneeling on the floor in a pool of his friend’s blood, torn between the two of them, curse twisting at his heart like it’s ripping out Felicity’s.

“I wish…” he swallows, his eyes sad. He stares at _Tommy_ while he says the words. “I wish for you to _help him_.”

The rush is immediate. The power that flows through her is _incredible_. It filters through every part of her being; it’s like bathing in sunshine.

Felicity crosses her arms and blinks.

Every ounce of power drains out of her in a rush. She falls forward onto her palms, dizzy, breathing shallow. Her hands land in the pool of Tommy’s blood. Droplets of red splatter across the bonds on her wrists.

She doesn’t _see_ Tommy healing, but she feels it. Feels the rebar slide back out of his lung, feels the liquid sucked out of his lungs, feels bones and tissue quickly sewn back together, feels _breath_ enter his lungs as he gasps like he’s been years without air.

The silver manacles on her wrists squeeze her skin. Pain spikes up her arms, but she sucks in a breath and tells herself it will pass. It was only _one_. The pain will pass. She can handle it.

There was no choice to make.

There never is.

Tommy’s curled up on his side; Oliver’s hands are still on his shoulders. Felicity stares down at her blood-covered hands, at the red against silver. A quick blink makes the blood disappear.

“What—” Tommy manages between coughs. “—the _hell—_ ” Another cough. “—was _that_?”

He presses a hand on his chest, over where the rebar was. Felicity knows there won’t even be a scar. The healing will be seamless.

Felicity doesn’t have words. Her head is still spinning, the pain in her wrists is fading slowly, and Oliver—

Oliver’s the one who speaks. “Felicity’s a genie.”

There’s a pause. _Everything_ flashes across Tommy’s face in a matter of seconds: shock, confusion, awe, alarm, and then back to confusion.

Quickly, Oliver amends his previous statement: “Felicity’s _my_ genie.”

* * *

Felicity sits cross-legged in midair, her chin in her hands, and listens to Oliver and Tommy yell at each other. They're standing very close together. Everything about their posture is tense. They’ve been at this for at least the past fifteen minutes.

“...I found her on the island. I opened her bottle,” Oliver is saying.

Tommy is angry. He’s angrier than Felicity has ever seen him. And he’s hurt. The two emotions are a tumultuous mixture. He looks like a storm. His voice is all ominous thunder, and his words have the pin-point precision of lightning. “You can’t own a _human being_ , Oliver.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not doing everything I can in this situation? It’s not as simple as you think.”

“I’m not human,” Felicity says simply.

Both men stop to turn and look at her.

“I’m not,” she says on a shrug. “Not technically. Not anymore.”

Tommy stares for a moment, chest heaving, eyebrows furrowed with confusion. Then he turns back to Oliver, and without missing a _beat_ , says: “You can’t own a _person_.”

“If he doesn’t, I go back into my bottle.” She’s drawn their attention again. “I go back there, and I stay there. Completely alone until someone _else_ owns me. This is the only way I get to _exist_.”

“Well, that sucks.” Tommy says, matter of fact.

Felicity nods. “Tell me about it.”

"And you," Tommy looks at Oliver. The anger has taken a backseat to confusion. "How does this _work_?"

"We're trying to figure that out," he says softly. "But for right now, I don't wish for anything—” He winces, and Felicity mentally adds in the unspoken _anything else_.  “—and she—" He takes a deep breath and looks right at Felicity. "She lives as normally as she can."

"And you're, what, Oliver? Her noble prince?" Felicity wonders if he intends it to sound so scornful. So embittered.                              

Oliver even doesn’t react to the taunt. "I would set her free in an _instant_ if I could.” He stops. Looks away. Looks _back_. “But I can't."

The words rest between the three of them for a moment. They seem to hover in the air, just like Felicity. And whatever emotion is beneath Oliver’s words, it soothes something. It _changes_ something. Tommy doesn’t deflate this time, like all the wind has been taken out of his sails. He _relaxes_. Like there was some test that Oliver just passed.

“So,” Tommy says, turning to Felicity. He starts _again_ at the sight of her hovering in midair. “You’ve got phenomenal cosmic powers and an itty-bitty living space?”

Felicity sighs. “Something like that.”

"That's why," Tommy says suddenly. "Why there was no logical reason how you could have met her? Why her name wasn't on the list of guests for your welcome home party? This is _why_?"

"Yes," Oliver says. "This is why."

"Why didn't you just _tell_ me?" Tommy asks.

Oliver gives Felicity a meaningful glance. "It wasn't my secret to tell."

"It was hers," Tommy surmises. "Okay. Okay, I get that. You were protecting her."

He rubs the back of his neck, "That's why you don't have money invested in this. Everything about you suddenly makes so much sense—and also no sense at _all_."

Felicity uncrosses her legs and drops to the ground. "Trust me, this is new for me too, most Masters don't _want_ anyone else knowing about me. I'm… safer that way."

"From what?" She catches curiosity in his tone, but not want. He is not Max Fuller. He does not want to possess her. This she knows.

Felicity hesitates on the answer, _they couldn’t keep me safe from themselves, and they were the real danger,_ but Oliver jumps in. "This _has_ to stay between us. I hate to ask you to keep a secret from Laurel but—"

"Not mine to tell," Tommy says. "I get it. And it's not like she'd believe me anyway. Does Thea know?"

"Tommy," Felicity says, taking a step toward him. "You're the _only_ one who knows, and it needs to stay that way. _Please_."

He studies her carefully, then holds out his hand. "I won't tell anyone. Promise."

They shake hands. Tommy doesn't let go right away, instead he holds her hand and her eyes for a long minute.

“And Felicity…” He pauses. It’s not hesitation, but it might be genuine feeling. A begrudging respect. “Thank _you_.”

Her breath catches in her throat. There’s nothing she can think of to say. He doesn’t understand the full extent of what she’s just done. He doesn’t know about the ache echoing in her wrists, the strengthening of the curse binding Oliver to her. He doesn’t know and he cannot understand.

But his thanks is a strange balm to her heart. Her eyes burn with tears, and she looks everywhere but directly at him, unable to speak as Tommy walks away. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him put a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. The words they exchange are low, and she doesn’t strain to hear them.

Everything changes once Tommy’s gone. Suddenly, Oliver doesn’t seem able to look at her anymore. His lips are tightly pressed together, and he rubs the pad of his right thumb against his right middle finger.

“I’m not sorry,” Felicity tells him, when the silence has become almost too much. “You shouldn’t be either. I would do it again.”

Oliver looks up. “Would you?”

“Yes,” she says, with conviction. Without hesitation. “I would. It was the right thing to do.”

Oliver reaches for her, and she willingly lets him take her into his arms. “I have never _ever_ deserved you,” he whispers into her hair, with so much unguarded emotion that she could drown in it. She doesn’t have a response to that. There _is_ no response to that, and not because of the statement’s truth or falsehood.

Overwhelmed—because of Tommy, because of Oliver, because there is still phantom pain radiating up her arms—Felicity holds onto him for dear life.

As tears stream down her face, Felicity blinks, just once, with purpose.

She hopes Oliver doesn’t notice the pool of blood on the floor is gone.

* * *

 

Felicity's first Master was a brute of a man whose name is a word Felicity refuses to even _think_. After six months of solitude in her bottle—six months of boredom and no master and cursing the name of the person who'd cursed her with this new life—the stopper was pulled and a strange sort of magic curled around her and pulled her _up up up_ through the neck of the bottle. Her whole body thrummed with magic, swam in it.

And there was something on her wrists.

The man who stared down at her was shirtless. He had dark eyes and broad shoulders and the _smile_ that lights up his face carried just a twinge of wildness to it.

"Master," she'd said, and the word had been pulled out of her mouth before there was time to even process that she was _saying_ it. "What is it you desire from me?"

She remembers the way his hands cupped her shoulders, remembers how his touch seemed to twist her emotions. Her body thrilled at the sensation of his hands on her skin, but the rest of her did not.

"I can wish for anything?"

She remembers the fear that shuddered through her at the delight in his eyes. His desire for her was palpable, and she remembers thinking _not me, you cannot have me_.

But what she'd said was, "Anything you want, Master."

(In time, she'd learned how to suppress that word, how to not throw it into conversations unless it was absolutely necessary, but he was Felicity's first, and she made _many_ mistakes with him.)

And oh, the things he had wanted.

Felicity knows now how to sort her Masters into categories. They are, in almost all instances, one of the seven deadly sins—lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride. Looking back upon her first, she knows now that his deadly sin was greed. He wanted physical things because he wanted them. Felicity provided him with all kinds of material possessions: animals, weapons, servants, living spaces, and artwork, whatever he wished.

It was a good thing, Felicity knew, that her first Master _had_ been that particular kind of selfish, because if he had been like one of the others who wanted to stay in her good graces, she might not have lasted.

He'd kissed her once, drunk on wine she'd provided him with his evening meal. It was harsh and sloppy and unpleasant, sweetness tasted sour, but he'd _wanted her_ and for a few moments she'd complied despite the sick feeling coiling in her gut.

She remembers the weight of his body on top of her after he'd passed out. She remembers how careful she'd been to roll him over so as not to wake him and run the risk of him wanting to finish what he'd started. She remembers sliding out of his bed, retreating to her bottle.

She remembers sitting on plush cushions, one clutched tightly to her chest as she waited in the darkness of her bottle, listening, waiting, dreading.

In the morning, he was obsessed with something else, and Felicity was determined to keep his mind off of her. She didn't mind granting wishes so long as it wasn't _her_ as his reward.

(In one day, he'd tightened the bonds of her wrists so tightly that they bled. She cried herself to sleep that night, desperate to be rid of him, but terrified of being without him.)

As it turned out, he was far from the worst one.

For seven years, she was his Genie, until one of his 'friends' figured it out and slit his throat while he slept. That friend became her second Master.

It is the face of her first Master that haunts her dreams one night, and she wakes up to find herself drenched in sweat and breathing heavily like she's been years without air.

Oliver's kneeling on the bed, and sometime during her dream he must have pulled her into his arms, because her back is against his chest and he's telling her that she's okay, that she's _safe_ , over and over again.

With a gentle hand, Oliver wipes her hair away from her face. He coaches her through her breathing, telling her to inhale and exhale with him. It takes an absurd amount of time, considering that she's a magical creature, for her breathing to slow down.

When she has calmed, she slips out of his arms. She does not want to be touched. She does not want to be held. (She does not want to _be_ , but that is not up to her and never has been.)

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, and she shakes her head. She doesn't want to talk about it, and that want is _hers_ , so she will cling to it with all she has

"Do you want to try to sleep?" he tries again, looking oddly helpless, sitting on the bed in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else.

She shakes her head.

Oliver regards her for a moment. Then he stands and heads for the walk-in closet. "Put on something warm," he tells her with a glance back over his shoulder.

She acquiesces immediately. When he returns—dressed in jeans and a black leather jacket—he cautiously takes her hand and says, "Come with me."

Oliver takes her out on his motorcycle that night. She wraps her arms around him, and they fly through the city. There's no need for any conversation. Felicity just follows his instructions to hold onto him tightly.

Somehow, Oliver manages to time their trip so that just as the sun is rising they reach the top of a ridge that gives them a fantastic view of the cityscape. There's an orange glow cast over the water, as he pulls off to the side of the road so they can rest for a little while.

Even after Oliver removes his helmet, he doesn't press her to tell him anything. They just watch the sunrise together in silence. At some point he takes her hand, and his thumb rubs absently across the backs of her knuckles. The touch is soothing, and Felicity's struck for a moment by just how dangerous this moment is.

This lingering affection for Oliver is not a good thing. She's allowed the curse to pull her down into the endless pit that is falling in love with one of her Masters before. She can't do it again. She doesn't think she can survive the aftermath.

She doesn't think she can cope with the pain that will fill her heart after Oliver Queen inevitably dies. Both the pain brought by the ever-constant realization the depth of how much the curse has affected her feelings toward him, but also just the pain of his _absence_.

Even losing the Masters she's _hated_ hurt. How could she possibly stand the pain of losing one she genuinely _likes_?

"Better?" he asks as they get ready to head back.

Felicity nods her head. Then she presses her body up against his, wraps her arms around him, and tries not to think about how little time there is before Oliver Queen is nothing more than another one of her memories.

* * *

 

Tommy waits until sunrise to give up on sleep.

Light creeps into Laurel’s bedroom slowly, slipping between the white curtains and slowly stretching across the floor as the day dawns. Beside him, Laurel sleeps. It’s Saturday. She has nowhere to be. It’s the only reason he’s still here. If it were a weeknight, he would have woken with the shrieking of her alarm, watched as she quickly and efficiently walked through her morning routine, and then helped himself to a travel mug of coffee before he followed her out the door.

Today he gets to watch her wake up. He thinks that alone might be worth the night of no sleep.

His brain had simply been too busy to settle down. Even after—he can’t help the softness that settles inside him at the memory of being with Laurel last night—he still hadn’t been able to get the events at Verdant out of his mind.

Tommy traces his fingers along the place where the rebar impaled him. He’s _sure_ that it happened. The memory is too clear, even if every scrap of physical evidence appears to no longer exist. He remembers falling. He remembers feeling his skin knit back together. That happened. That was _real_.

He knows it.

And if he accepts that as real, then he has to accept…

Felicity has to be real too. That’s the only explanation for why he’s still breathing. There’s just no logical way to reconcile the world he knows with a world that also has _genies_. Real, live, _magical_ genies. Genies who have the power to grant wishes.

Thousands of questions spin around in his head, and he has the answers to none of them.

But Oliver does. Oliver _has_ to know more than what Tommy has been told. _Is she the only genie? Can she only grant three wishes?_

_Why can’t Oliver set her free? Does he really want to?_

Even as that question floats through Tommy’s mind, he knows the answer. Oliver would wish her free if he could. That’s what Oliver _said_ , and Tommy doesn’t think he was lying. Not to him. Not about _that_.

Next to Tommy, Laurel shifts in her sleep, momentarily distracting him from thoughts of Felicity. He still can’t quite believe he’s getting this moment here with her. Even if he still doesn’t have a drawer.  

He’s never done slow before, but he can. He _will_. For her.

It had been hard last night to shrug off greeting her with an extra-long hug with a quick quip and a genuine smile. There was no way to explain that he held her longer because for a few brief minutes he thought he might never get another chance to hold her again.

On the nightstand, Tommy’s phone vibrates. He tries not to disturb Laurel as he reaches for it. The new text message is from Oliver. _Meet at Verdant at ten?_

Tommy hesitates for a moment, and then types out a quick, _Yes, that’ll work,_ and then sets the phone aside.

Laurel hums. She snuggles in close to him. Gently Tommy kisses her forehead. “G’morning,” Laurel mumbles. “How did you sleep?”

He kisses her so that he doesn’t have to confess that he didn’t sleep a wink.

Later, when Tommy walks up to Verdant’s back door with a cup of coffee in one hand, he finds Oliver waiting for him.

“We need to talk,” Oliver says.

Tommy thinks that’s somewhat of an understatement.

Oliver unlocks Verdant and they both step inside. Neither of them seem to be able look at the spot on the floor where Tommy lay bleeding.

For a while, they talk business. Papers need to be signed, agreements need to be reached. Oliver has apparently spent time figuring out an entire _list_ of things Tommy can get started helping them with.

Eventually, the list of things to discuss slowly dwindles down to the one last thing neither of them have yet possessed the courage to mention: Felicity.

Tommy’s the one who brings up the genie in the room.

“Where’s Felicity this morning?” Tommy asks, intentionally keeping his tone light.

“At the house. In her bottle.”

Tommy waits for him to explain further.

“She thought we needed some time.”

“She wasn’t wrong,” Tommy agrees. “I wish you’d felt like you could just tell me.”

Oliver’s smile is pained. “You got to admit it was a bit far-fetched. I had no assurances that you would even _believe_ me.”

“So wish for an elephant,” Tommy says. “I’d have believed you if I’d seen _that_ appear out of thin air.”

“That’s not exactly fair to her,” Oliver tells him.

Tommy sighs deeply. “Yeah. I know.”

Oliver’s quiet for a moment, then: “I always want to tell you _everything_. You know that right?”

Tommy swallows. His voice feels brittle when he says, “So why don’t you, Oliver?”

“There’s too much.”

It hurts, and Tommy looks away from him for a moment so Oliver doesn’t see it on his face. “I can handle more than you think.”

“You shouldn’t _have_ to. I don’t _want_ you to.”

That stings too, but before Tommy can bite out a reply, Oliver quickly continues: “You don’t deserve that.”

“But she does?” Instantly, Tommy regrets those words.

Oliver visibly flinches. “No,” he says quietly. “She doesn’t.”

“I know that she’s with you because she _has_ to be,” Tommy says, “But Oliver, you can’t _honestly_ tell me that there aren’t feelings involved.” He doesn’t specify if he means Oliver’s feelings or Felicity’s feelings, but he guesses it’s _both_.

Oliver’s gaze drifts past Tommy to the wall behind him. For a moment, Tommy wonders where he just went.

When Oliver returns, he replies, “It’s complicated.”

“She’s a genie,” Tommy says. “I wouldn’t expect simplicity.”

“She’s designed to give me everything I want. She’s designed to _be_ everything I want.” Oliver shakes his head. “That doesn’t give her a lot of _choices_.”

“Doesn’t exactly give _you_ a lot either.” Oliver gives him a confused look, so Tommy clarifies. “You’re just supposed to _resist_ the literal girl of your dreams? That’s what she is, isn’t she?”

Oliver lets out an unnatural sounding chuckle. “Something like that.”

Tommy rubs the back of his neck. “I have a hell of a lot of questions, Oliver.” It’s an olive branch and they both know it.

“I don’t have most of the answers.”

“She does,” Tommy surmises.

“I won’t stop you if you want to ask them, but you may not like what you hear.” It’s Oliver’s own olive branch, in a way. What it isn’t is an _I’m sorry for not telling you_ , but it _is_ an _I won’t withhold things from you now_.

Tommy thinks it’s enough.

* * *

 

That afternoon, Tommy pushes open the door to Oliver’s office and walks inside. Oliver’s on the phone, but he looks up and holds up his hand in a casual wave. Felicity’s sitting on a long, cushiony couch that Tommy is relatively sure that Felicity has conjured _that_ up out of thin air, because there’s no way it was there yesterday.

Quietly, Tommy slips over to Felicity. “C’mon,” he says, offering her a hand. “I’m here to rescue you from Oliver.”

For just a moment, Felicity looks completely terrified.

“Not like—” he winces. _Idiot_. “Not like _that_. He’s just going to be on that call for the next three hours. You should come get lunch with me.”

Felicity glances at Oliver, possibly to get his permission. Does she actually _need_ his permission? Tommy still doesn’t fully understand all the ins-and-outs of this whole genie thing.

But Oliver nods his head at Felicity and mouths _thank you_ to Tommy. It doesn’t escape Tommy’s notice that all the tension drains out of Felicity immediately. He holds out a hand, and after another quick glance at Oliver, she lets him help her to her feet.

Big Belly Burger is easy and within walking distance, so that’s where they go.

“Do you know what you want?” he asks after they sit down. He’s eaten out with her and Oliver enough that he’s picked up on the fact that Oliver usually orders for her. At first he thought it was odd. Then the genie secret came out, and he realized that she was probably a bit unfamiliar with twenty-first century menu choices.

Felicity shrugs. “You wanna surprise me?”’

“How do you feel about milkshakes?”

“I like them.”

“French fries or onion rings?”

She hums softly. “Both?”

He glances up at her over the top of the menu. “How about I order one and you order the other and we’ll share? Sound good?”

She looks relieved. “Sounds good.”

“So,” he says, after the waitress has taken their order. “About the whole genie thing… how does that—how does that even _happen_? It’s not exactly a typical career path.”

Without the menu, Felicity doesn’t seem to know what to do with her hands. “Some genies are born.”

The careful wording of that statement is impossible to miss. “But not you.”

“No,” she says. “Not me.”

“You were—”

“Human,” she finishes. “I was human.”

“Father, mother, all that?”

“I suppose so. I don’t remember them.”

“Not at all?”

“It’s been six hundred years. I didn’t know my father very well. He left when I was really young, and my mother—” Felicity stops to take a sip of her water. “I couldn’t even really begin tell you what she looked like beyond...her hair was the same color as mine. I think.”

“How old were you, when…” He stops, trying to figure out how to phrase something as awkward as _You turned into a genie?_ He settles on: “When things changed?”

“Twenty-three.” she says. “I was twenty-three when he cursed me.”

“Who is ‘he’?” Tommy asks.

Their milkshakes arrive before Felicity has a chance to answer.

“How did you and Oliver meet?” Felicity asks, using her spoon to scoop the cherry off her whipped cream and pop it into her mouth.

“Neither of us actually remember.”

“Really?”

“Really. We’ve known each other forever. He’s just always been there.” Until one day five years ago when he abruptly _wasn’t_ there, but Tommy doesn’t want to think about that anymore. Oliver’s here now. “I feel like the more interesting story here is: How did you and Oliver meet?”

“He opened my bottle on _Lian Yu_ ,” Felicity answers.

“And that… was it?”

“He opened my bottle, and he wished that he could go home.”

Tommy freezes, feeling as if the floor may as well have dropped out from underneath him.  “You’re the reason he came home?”

She nods.

The warmth that spreads through his chest is indescribable. He reaches for Felicity, and he lays his hand over hers. Her eyes widen when his fingers close lightly around her wrist, but even so, she lets him. “Thank you,” he says. “For bringing him back—thank you.”

She blushes— _blushes—_ and ducks her head, but doesn’t pull her hand away.

“What? What did I say?”

“I just realized that—” she looks up, eyes meeting his, “—saving him, bringing him home, it’s probably the only truly good thing I’ve done in six hundred years.”

“That can’t possibly be true.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and the sadness on Felicity’s face makes him wish he could put them back. “

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I don’t _need_ to.” He says. “You saved him. You saved _me_.”

They’re interrupted again by their waitress setting down two baskets of food. It doesn’t escape Tommy’s notice that Felicity uses the distraction to casually pull her hand away from his.

She’s very adept, Tommy realizes, at slyly keeping people within her control. As visibly uncomfortable as she’s been during their conversation, it hasn’t gone anywhere she wasn’t actually okay with it going.

Biting into an onion ring, Tommy decides to wait to see what conversation she’ll instigate.

“I don’t want to hurt him, you know,” Felicity says. “Hurting him is the _last_ thing that I want.”

Tommy swirls a french fry around in his milkshake. He was expecting her to avoid the serious part of the conversation, not go down a different avenue. “I believe you.”

He watches as she bites into an onion ring. She closes her eyes and chews the food carefully. It doesn’t escape his notice that she’s clearly savored every bite of food she’s taken during this meal.

“So Oliver has had you, all this time, and he hasn’t done anything crazy?”

Felicity frowns. “Define crazy?”

“I don’t know.” Tommy thinks for a moment. “A lifetime supply of chili.”

She gives him a skeptical look. “Does he like chili?”

Tommy shrugs. “Maybe he does now. I don’t understand him anymore, Felicity. I used to know him as well as I knew my own name, but now everything’s different.”

“He was alone for a long time. I know a little bit about what that’s like.”

“I don’t want things to stay like this,” he tells her, and the truth in the confession _hurts_. He got Oliver _back_. He just also wishes that he’d gotten _Oliver_ back.

“Tell me about Oliver,” Felicity says. “The Oliver that _you_ know, not the one that I know.”

“I taught him to dance.”

She laughs. "Really?"

"Really," Tommy says. "He was trying to get with this girl—”

“Laurel?” Felicity asks with a hint of trepidation in her voice.

Tommy nods. “—and I'd taken ballroom dancing classes, so he enlisted my help." More like demanded and then begged, but Felicity doesn't need to know that.

“What kind of dancing did you _teach_ him?” Felicity asks. “I’ve been holed up in a bottle since the _sixties_.”

“Nothing that modern, actually,” Tommy says. He lets himself get lost in the memory for a few seconds, remembers them shoving aside the furniture in the Queen’s living room. It’s a nice memory. “He _wanted_ to learn how to tango, but there’s no way I could teach someone with complete lack of rhythm how to tango in an _hour_. Oliver has two left feet.”

As he looks at her, an idea hits. “You could probably fix that?”

There’s the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. “Probably,” Felicity says. “If he asked. He wasn’t so bad at Laurel’s party?”

“ _That’s_ what I taught him,” Tommy says with a fond grin. “How to stand on your feet and sway.”

“Oh. Well. He’s very good at it.” She bites into another onion ring. Tommy’s only been paying a little bit of attention, but she definitely likes those more than she likes the french fries. “You taught him well.”

Suddenly Tommy’s brain jerks him back to what Felicity said a few minutes ago: “Wait—the sixties?”

She nods, mouth filled with deep fried onion.

“So you’ve just… missed the past five decades?”

Another nod. Something clicks in Tommy’s mind. He wonders if helping her adjust helped Oliver adjust.

“What would you do?” Felicity asks suddenly. “If you just… found a genie on the beach. What would you do?”

It’s the hardest and easiest question of Tommy’s life. He understands in an instant why Oliver’s first thought was going home, because the next words out of his mouth are: “I’d wish for my mom back.”

Felicity doesn’t seem surprised by his answer. “Where is she?”

“She died.”

“I’m sorry.” Felicity’s quiet for a moment. “I couldn’t bring her back. And not because I wouldn’t _want_ to.”

“Can’t bring back the dead, huh?”

She shakes her head. “That’s why it was so important that Oliver wish right when he did. If you’d died… there would have been nothing left for me to do. We would have lost you.”

There’s something he’s not understanding, and he knows it. What he remembers about almost dying is fragmented into bits and pieces. The details are fuzzy around the edges. Tommy leaves them be for now.

“Huh.” He leans back in the booth. “You know, besides my mom and Oliver… I’m not sure I even _have_ anything else I’d wish for.”

“Pretty sure you’d think of something,” she tells him with a sad sort of certainty.

"Willing to bet you couldn't make my Dad love me." The words are out of his mouth before he really has a moment to process saying them, and as soon as he’s spoken them he wishes that he could take them back.

She doesn’t, to her credit, give him any reassuring platitudes. She doesn’t tell him that she’s sure his father loves him, or that people express love in different ways, or that his father can’t be that bad. Instead, she pushes aside the empty basket that held the french fries. “I am both disappointed and tremendously relieved that I don’t have that particular kind of power.”

Tommy shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I even _said_ that, Felicity. I never—” He stops, struck by a horrible thought. “You can’t… make me open up about things, right? That’s not a genie thing?”

“No,” she says. “That’s not a genie thing.”

He thinks on that for a moment. “Must be a Felicity thing then,” he says sincerely.

She blushes. Tommy’s struck with the sudden need to back out of the moment. Quickly, he stands up, adjusts his jacket, and picks up the receipt. “I’ll take care of this and be right back,” he tells Felicity.

When her expression turns uncertain, he waits just a moment, wondering.

But whatever is causing the furrow in her brow and the pressing together of her lips must fade, because all she says is a soft, “Thank you for lunch,” before he walks away.

* * *

 

“How was lunch?” Oliver asks when Felicity returns. He crosses the room to meet her halfway and gives her a quick hug, like he can’t bear to go another few seconds without touching her. He probably can’t.

She waits for a moment before she answers. “Good, I think,” she says. “I… like him.”

Those words if spoken to _anyone_ else would be trouble. But she trusts Oliver. She does.

“Is… is that okay?” she stammers.

He takes one of her hands in both of his. “I’m glad, Felicity. I really am. You deserve to have friendships."

"I don't _need_ them."

"Everyone needs them," Oliver argues. “Everyone. You’re no exception.”

“That never ends well for me, Oliver. Someone gets jealous. Someone decides they want the bottle.”

“I’m not going to get jealous over you spending time with my best friend, Felicity.”

Panic swells up inside her. “I don’t want your friendship to be ruined because of me.”

“Hey.” He tips her chin up with the edge of his finger. “If our friendship gets ruined—which it _won’t_ —that won’t be because of you. That’ll be on me and him. It won’t be your fault.”

Her rising panic bubbles into white-hot anger at him for not understanding. “Do you know what he told me, Oliver? He told me that I saved _you_. That I saved _him_? But you know what I didn’t do? I didn’t do any saving. If you’d wanted me to let Tommy die I would have _let him die_. My loyalties and my choices and my _every action_ is tied to what my Master wants. It’s tied to what _you_ want.”

“You _begged_ me to let you save him, Felicity. How the hell was that not your choice?”

“Because you still have the **_power_** , Oliver. We might both be trapped in the same hell, but we _both_ know that inside that fiery pit of misery it is _your_ boot pressing against _my_ throat.” Her vision blurs and she’s not sure which Master she’s yelling at. Oliver’s in the room with her, but the trajectory of her words is scattered across space and time towards a hundred different men.

He recoils like she’s just slapped him. She watches as he throws his shoulders back, bracing for a physical confrontation she can’t and won’t give him.

Taking a step forward, Oliver looms over her, and for a moment she wants to take an instinctive step back. She doesn’t. She doesn’t move, and most importantly, she doesn’t _flinch._

And Oliver deflates. All the defensiveness falls off of him, and in the tiniest voice he says, “You’re scared of me. I thought you were scared of the curse, but you’re _not_. You’re scared of _me_.”

She doesn’t bother to deny it.

He reaches for her, and this time she moves away, but not _back_. She steps to the side. She’s shaking, but not with anger.

“Felicity,” he says softly, slowly, and never before him has anyone said her name like he does, like the word itself contains infinite meanings.

Another Master would have turned cold, filled himself with irritation and anger at her words and her resistance to his wants. He wants her to let him touch her, he wants to reassure her, he wants her not to be scared of him, and there are too many contradictions inside Felicity for her to think completely clearly. But she _doesn’t_ want him to touch her, and he _hasn’t_ done anything to make her feel reassured, and she _is_ scared of him.

At the same time, she does not want to turn him against her. She wants to hit him and to hold him. She wants to be treated with tenderness and not tyranny. And the thought of the tenderness frightens her more than the thought of the tyranny. Because she could— _she_ , Felicity, the person and not the genie—could love him. For wanting her to be normal and wanting her to have friends and for making her _beg_ him to hurt her so someone’s life could be saved.

The shaking slowly subsides. When she looks up at Oliver, she feels like she broke something deep inside him. But Felicity’s hands have always been good at fixing things, and she puts them to good use now.

She touches his forearm. It’s light and barely there, but it’s a connection. She knows by the way it shudders through her whole being that it does the same to his.

She doesn’t step towards him, but she leans in, and he comes to her. There is an easiness about the way he wraps his arms around her.

When he kisses her forehead, Felicity closes her eyes. Tears drip down her cheeks. There is no way for this to _last_ , and that knowledge hurts _._

“I’m scared of myself too,” he whispers.

* * *

 

Even though he’s returned to civilization, Oliver remains silently aware that he keeps himself in shape because he’s still expecting to find a threat lurking around every corner. He’s still trying to survive. Even though he probably doesn’t need to anymore.

More than that though, he likes how he can push his body to exhaustion, likes how he can work until his brain shuts off. When he works out, he doesn’t have to think about the island, he doesn’t have to talk to anybody, and he doesn’t have to watch people try to process how  _different_  he is now.

To her great credit, Felicity never comments on this—except once, to tell him that it would be easier for her to just give him abs if he wants them. He explains her that he just enjoys it, and she seems to instinctively understand.

She understands a lot about him without him ever having to explain. Oliver doesn’t find this fact as unnerving as he thinks he should. On the contrary, he sort of likes how Felicity knows what to do without asking him. She knows instinctively when to give him space; she understands when to talk and when to listen, when to push him to tell her what’s going on, and when to leave him be. She knows when he wants her around and when he doesn’t. It’s helpful.

Everyone else in his life is tip-toeing around him, never knowing what to do or what to say. And Felicity just  _knows_.

It’s one of the days when he wants her with him all the time, even if he’s not craving conversation. Oliver is doing push ups; she’s sitting on his back, tracing the crisscrossing of scars on his skin. She’s quiet through all of his reps, until he gets to the last number.

"I could take them away you know," Felicity says. "All I have to do is blink."

"I don’t want you to," he replies, lowering himself to the floor one last time. "Not if it would take a wish."

He thinks the entire Genie/Master system is perverted, but nothing more so than the fact that his wishes would cause her physical pain. Oliver’s no stranger to pain, but he’d rather endure it himself than knowingly or unknowingly inflict it on others.

Felicity uses a little magic to keep herself hovering in the air while he rolls over onto his back. Slowly, she settles on the floor beside him. Her thigh brushes against the side of his hip.

"It wouldn’t," she says, drawing a finger across the curve of one mark close to his ribcage. "I could do it without one. I just would never do it if it wasn’t something you wanted. And I know that sometimes…sometimes you wish they were gone. You’re a little indecisive about them, actually."

"They’re part of me now."

She frowns, and he’s distracted for just a moment by her lips, the fullness and the bold pink color that matches her outfit today. “I understand,” she says, solemnly. “You want to go back to the person you were before them. You don’t actually want them removed.”

Her perceptiveness is off-putting. “How do you  _do_  that?”

"I’m yours," she answers simply. "I need to understand all your desires if I’m supposed to fulfill them."

If that’s true, that means she knows what he wants when he looks at her, when he touches her, when he kisses—

"Yes," she says softly. " _All_  of them. Even those.”

"You’ve never explained how that works," Oliver says, suddenly desperate to change the subject. "How you could do that kind of magic—take away the scars—without a wish?"

"The magic I have isn’t  _mine,_  you know. It’s connected to the bottle; the curse just gives me a way to access it. Some of it is right there, mine for the taking whenever I need it. Some of it I need you to give me access through, by wanting things. Your wants are…”

She stops, and he realizes that she’s searching for the right way to explain, so he stays quiet.

"Your  _wants_  are like a key, giving me access to deeper, more powerful magic. Your  _wishes_ , those are much more potent magic. The strongest magic a Genie can wield comes from the power of her Master’s wish.”

He reaches for her, touches the silver bonds around her wrists. They’re looser now, just sort of  _there_  above the surface of her skin. “But I can’t wish for you to be free.”

"I can’t free  _any_  genie. It’s a rule. Since the magic runs through me, it’s a rule I have to follow even if you are the one who wishes it. I can’t raise the dead. I can’t kill anyone. I can’t make anyone fall in love. And I can’t free myself.”

"You can’t make anyone fall in love?"

"Not consciously," she says. "There are ways to work around that, manipulations and tricks. I’ve had some very _creative_  Masters. Many of them made me do things I’m not proud of.”

"Tell me about one of them," he says, and he wills it not to be an order. "One of the Masters before me."

"I don’t think that’s a good idea."

"Please," he says. "I want…"

He’s not sure what he wants. He wants the information. He wants to know, but it’s not mere curiosity. He wants to know because this is Felicity, because she’s important to him, because he needs to protect her. And in order to do that…

"I want to understand," he says. "Please. I want to understand."

And—perhaps because of the way she seems to know his longings so intimately—Felicity gives him what he wants.

"Christopher," she says. "He was sixteen, and a thief. He was mine—or, I was his, it doesn’t really matter; it’s all the same—around three hundred years ago."

"How well do you remember him?"

"I remember him. I remember all of them. I can’t forget. It’s all there, every word every moment. Every  _touch_. One Master wished it away, wished that I’d forget about all of them. It was very far into our relationship. We were  _very_ closely bound, and the jealousy…the jealousy had begun to drive him mad. Besides, he’d accidentally lost me to other Masters at least three times, and he’d killed each of them to get me back. He thought I dreamed of them, wanted them, and loved them more than him. But then he died, and all the memories came back. I had a year of peace before my bottle opened again.”

"What happened to Christopher?" Oliver asks. Felicity’s hands are trembling in his, and he doesn’t like seeing her so upset. Christopher seems like a happy enough memory to distract her from the heavy sadness weighing in her voice.

"The Master after him cut out his heart in order to take me away. He was so young. Not even twenty-five yet. He had a good heart; I didn’t have many kind Masters, but before you—" She breaks eye contact with Oliver—"before you, he was the kindest. I didn’t like the one who killed him very much."

"What did that one make you do?"

He sees the moment he loses her to the memory. She’s no longer looking at him, but  _through_  him. Her expression is sorrowful. Oliver sits up, and reaches for her.

"Felicity—" he starts to say, and instantly she pulls away from him.

"You don’t want to know, Oliver. You don’t want to know any of this, because this is what you become."

"You keep saying that I don’t want to know, Felicity, but it’s not about me wanting to know. It’s about you needing to tell  _someone_.”

She shakes her head. “I know what you want from me. I always know. I know all your wants. You want to fix me, but you can’t, Oliver. Setting me  _free_  won’t even do that, all it does is leave me alone with all these memories and all this pain.”

"Hey," he cups her face with his hand. "You won’t be alone. I’m still going to be here."

"You say that now, but they  _all_  say that. And good or bad they all eventually leave me. It’s time for you to stop thinking that you’re different. They  _all_  think they’re different. This is the only future for me.”

And that’s something he understands all too well: the suffocating feeling of all the walls closing in. Being hopeless. Having no good choices, no good options. Knowing that the only hope for tomorrow was just in surviving today.

Oliver Queen knows what it is to have no future.

Wrapping an arm around her waist to draw her body close to his, Oliver leans in so he can press his forehead against hers. One of her legs slides across him so she can settle onto his lap. Even though her words and tone were harsh and angry, revealing centuries of deep hurts, Felicity easily sinks into his embrace with a shuddering exhale. For just a moment, it feels like they’re the only two people in the entire house, in the entire city, in the entire world.

"I’m not going to hurt you, Felicity," he promises, and he feels the delicate preciousness of this moment. He wonders fleetingly if she had this with other Masters, if she was like this with them, but the thought is something that only partially forms. It vanishes the second she presses her lips to his. It’s a distraction, and he knows it, but that doesn’t stop it from  _working_.

When she pulls away, he opens his eyes to find her shrouded in a haze of purple smoke. He clings to her like a lifeline, trying to hold her closer even as he feels her slipping through his fingers.

"You only say that because you think you have a choice," she whispers, and a second later, she’s disappeared back into her bottle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me despite the long stretch between updates. This fall semester was _intense_ , and it made finding time to write difficult.

**Author's Note:**

> Want _more_? Updates for this verse tend to happen drabble-style on [my tumblr](http://andyouweremine.tumblr.com) first, so if you want them as soon as possible, [The I Dream Of Felicity AU tag](http://andyouweremine.tumblr.com/tagged/the-i-dream-of-felicity-au) is the tag to keep an eye on. Additionally, you may find [The I Dream Of Felicity Masterpost](http://andyouweremine.tumblr.com/post/111103885408/the-i-dream-of-felicity-au-masterpost) helpful.


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